I'll Have to Drive Through Those Gale Force Winds
by Milky Teaway
Summary: With the 2017 Piston Cup Racing Series accelerating in, a young convertible nabs a job working behind the pits, right in the behind the scenes lives of the racers. What she didn't expect was to be engulfed in the squall of Team IGNTR and their formidibly talented, and interesting racer, Jackson Storm.
1. Chapter 1: Let's Get Going

**_Hi all, I've been in the Cars fandom for some time, and got a shred of encouragement to write a fiction about Jackson Storm from how little his personality was explored in Cars 3. This story contains an Original Character that will not impact the Canon characters. This is also my first fanfic, so let me know how you think I did in the reviews once you've read a bit Enjoy!_**

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"Tell me what it's like?"

"Its tedious; she's been studying for half of the day, and is sleeping in more than she usually does. Hoping for the best going to classes everyday for a future that you may not have figured out yet."

"Hm," The Convertible pursed her pouty lips at her mother's honesty about her older sister's experience at college. Her doe brown eyes became distant as she thought about the last sentence. She wasn't certain about being ready for post-secondary school either, but it would come eventually.

Her mother sighed on the other end of the phone call after a brief moment of silence between the two.

"...Maybe she's just not ready for college," the speakers of the device vibrated under the Convertible's left tire, and she gasped at the volume and ticklish sensation on her axles.

"Melise, were you laying down on your phone, again?", her mother's voice went up an octave on the last word, as Melise's eyes widened and she giggled sheepishly.

"You called me once at 4am because of that, shesh!", Melise smiled to herself and adverted her eyes to the sun streaming through the dark red curtains of her hotel room. Her mother's lectures fading with her daydreaming.

She was on her own– alone for the first time, with an employment opportunity for the next several months. Maybe not the most glamourous job, but it was a new experience. An oil runner for The Piston Cup Racing Series, and yes, the excitement coupled with nervousness was a tinge overwhelming, but heck, Melise was just an oil girl, not a racer, her oil pressure didn't have a reason to rise.

But she was alone... it was beginning to settle in, and her cabin felt like a surge of coolant had run through it.

" ... and make sure your– are you listening to me!?" her mother's voice echoed the western-style suite. Melise's expressionless face glanced back down to the phone screen, which lit up with the graze of her bumper. The call duration read: 'Vanda Rūūnes (Mother Dearest)'

"Yes," she answered calmly, "I know, all doors locked, wash my tires before rolling around, and stay out of trouble, even though I've never been in trouble."

Vanda breathed a sigh through the phone, "Good, now stay safe, 'hun, no gasohol. I'll call later, and your first shift tomorrow– what time again?"

Melise reversed and reached for a folder donning the Piston Racing Series logo, she flipped it open to be certain for the third time.

"Seven AM to seven-thirty PM," she replied, doing the math in her head as she stretched her axles out and slumped on her chassis.

"Hmph," Vanda remarked simply. Melise didn't hesitate to roll her eyes where her mother couldn't see it.

"It's a job with the Piston Cup Racing Series, what else could you expect?" Melise grinned in spite of her overprotective mother. She wasn't a little car learning to drive, she could handle her own.

"With those hours, you best be getting me an autograph or picture with Darrell Cartrip!" She breathed a sigh after a moment, "I just don't want you to get hurt, you know how clumsy you get!"

"Yeah..." the peach-colored convertible chewed her bottom lip, hoping her tires could stay in a straight line this time around. "I'm going to try to do my best, Mom."

The two ended their nonchalant call with good-byes. Melise began to daydream, caught up in the spectacle of a new exciting life ahead.

A glare of sun rays peaked through those royal red curtains and pierced Melise's eyes. She leaned her frame on her right side, allowing her eyes to escape from the blinding solar rays.

The instructions presented to her in email specified that the racers were not arriving until the evening. Their time rich and productive with training. They were to not be disturbed, and staff were to revise any changes to supplies, orders or shift rounds with their supervisors.

The new age Honda convertible laid there in redundant thought as her left wheel traced a semi-circle against the soft quilt.

 _'If I stay lazy now, I'll be lazier later.'_ Her thoughts raced.

Melise suddenly perked up on all her tires, her axles warming up with her rush of excitement. She couldn't sit still until the action started, that was too boring.

"So let's explore this place," she said enthusiastically in her ambient voice– to no one in particular. She smiled at the weird behaviour. If anyone else were around, they'd muse at her as if she were a child, or perhaps the usual "weirdo" comment would spawn itself on the tongue of another car.

But that didn't matter right now. Melise rolled her way to the exit of her suite, making sure she had her key-card tucked under her fender.

 _'Just a little cruise around,_ ' she mused in her thoughts, as she pushed open the suite door.

 _ **A Stormy race car is a brewing in the next chapters. Stay tuned!**_


	2. Chapter 2: More Than Liquid Adrenaline

**Chapter 2: It's More Than Liquid Adrenaline**

 _This is probably where the story starts to pick up, Jackson Storm is introduced, and his entourage of support. Hope you're still reading!_

It was routine to inspect the moving van. Simple inspections could reveal intricate problems that could pose a risk for the truck handling their trailer. It was annoying sometimes but safety was first.

Gale watched patiently as two forklifts examined the shiny, black 'IGNTR' trailer's tires. Maybe she didn't pay much attention to the vivid design of IGNTR's aesthetic, but the way the blue glowed above the shiny black coating was a new and improved contrast from traditional colors of Piston Cup racers. It gave off an ominous- yet, innovative feel.

A pick-up truck donning the same black and blue paintjob rolled over, parking himself beside the female truck with a weary gaze plastered on his front end. They both watched as air was filled into the right-side back tire of the trailer.

"With all the rookies I've trained, all the race cars I've had," the pick-up truck began, "I've never met a racer as fearless as Jackson."

Gale nodded once, a smile spread across her lips.

"You'd know it, as his crew chief, Ray," she stated, matter of factually. He was Ray Reverham after all, crew chief of racing team IGNTR, sporting team's 2.0 number.

"His speed clocked in at 209 miles on the simulator yesterday," Ray continued, his voice resonating awe.

"No kidding!? Damn, he's like a bullet." Gale replied, stunned as she glanced back to Ray beside her. She hadn't been a hauler for a long time, but that had to be the fastest car she'd met.

"And he's our racer, kid's got talent," Ray smiled as his eyes turned to her.

"Those guys down at the track won't forget about, Jackson. He's going places."

The sudden reving of an electric engine approached the pair of crew; the two forklifts began packing away their pumps and tools as they looked in the direction of the unique sound.

"Morning, Reverham," an articulate and smooth voice resonated from the mouth of the black and neon race car– quickly approaching the duo.

"Ah, there he is," Ray mused, his expression becoming joyeous as he caught sight of Jackson pulling up in front of him and Gale.

"Here's our number 20, fastest racer soon to dominate the Piston Cup, Jackson Storm!" Ray beamed, as Gale giggled at his opera.

Jackson smiled, taking in those words. He knew this day would come soon enough, he could finally show the racing world what true talent was.

"Only the best with my team," Storm replied simply as his eyes adverted to Gale, she smiled warmly.

"That, I like," Jackson complimented, "The paint job makes you look like a champion truck."

"Ah, thanks," Gale replied, "It's a big change from my usual paintjob, but it's damn crisp in the sunlight."

"Trailer's ready," Ray rolled towards the back hatch, and with the press of a button, the hatch opened.

He took a look inside the trailer of the racer. Blue neon lights donned the walls connecting the ceiling to the length. A large grafted, glowing, neon blue light displayed the next-generation racing number of 2.0. A large mat covered the floor, showcasing Storm's sponsor, 'Liquid Adrenaline'.

"Huh..." Ray murmured, amazed. These millenials today really brought out the meaning of futuristic technology.

"Trailer's ready, I'm ready," Jackson pulled up to Ray, taking notice of his starstruck with the trailer.

"You getting a ride to the 400, Ray?" Jackson asked, as Gale got herself hooked up.

"Who else is gonna watch your luggage? Aye, I got a ton of planning to do for your preparation too." Ray replied, rejecting his offer, and turning his attention away from the decked out trailer, to Jackson.

"I'll be arriving later tonight, or the next morning," Ray continued as Jackson reversed himself into his trailer.

"Train till then, they won't know what hit 'em when the race starts the next few days."

"No problem– and you've got the simulator ready for transport?" Jackson asked, reaching his back tire for something behind him, as he looked to Ray.

"Yeah, it's probably gonna arrive there before I do," Ray replied reversing slowly, "two of your pitties, Leon and Quincy, will be tagging along with it. You'll meet them soon enough."

"Ah, alright, everything's all set," Jackson slid two cans of energy oil down the hatch ramp to his crew chief. Ray stared at the can inquisitively.

"IGNTR gave me a months supply, what better way to thank my driver and crew chief than to share the benefits?"

Ray turned the canister logo to face him, although the black and blue coloring already answered his question. The logo read in large white font, 'IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline' confirming his curiosity.

"Better than firing three of your crew chiefs like McQueen did in his first season," Ray joked, reading the ingredients of the drink.

Jackson busted into a fit of laughter as he recalled watching McQueen twist his way into his rookie season 11 years ago. Jackson wouldn't make the same mistake.

"That's for sure," Ray remarked, reversing with the cans in his tire's grip. "Have a safe drive, Jackson."

Jackson shook his frame chuckling, "You too, Reverham," he pressed the 'close' button and the trailer hatch began folding up.

"I'll save some juice for McQueen, he's gonna need it!" Jackson said, before the hatch closed.

Ray, drove his way up to Gale as she started her engine, ready to haul out.

"Courtesy of Jackson Storm," Ray smiled, sliding the can to her tire.

"Go-Go Juice, huh?" Gale caught the can under her tire, "This energy drink, I can work with... and I do." she winked.

"See ya at the speedway, Ray." Gale pulled out of the lot tugging Jackson's trailer. Her black shimmering paint standing out among the green landscape and blue sky.

Ray waved them farewell, turning his attention back to the forklifts waiting at the side of the lot.

"Now, how the hell am I gonna get that simulator to the hotel?" Ray inquired, honestly.

The two forklifts exchanged glances with each other before shrugging.

"I'll figure out something." Ray accelerated towards the COMBUSTR sponsor building behind him, as the forklifts followed suite.

 _hope you enjoyed Jackson's intro thus far. More chapters to come. Have a good one, and watch Cars 3 if you haven't already, it's a neat story from the rest!_


	3. Chapter 3: Here They Come

_**Today, I went out of my way to buy myself a Cars Origins novel. The novels contain some spoilers to the film, but they also give readers a novelty amount of backstory on each– Cruz, Lightning, and Jackson.**_

 _ **I walked in the scorching sun for a few kilometres just to obtain 'Cars Origins : Storm Chasing' from Chapters. (You can also get it on Amazon for the same price). I felt Brian Fee did a horrible job bringing out who Jackson was, and what his personality traits embodied. This novel– it did it! A great read, although still quite vague about Storm's past, it shed some light on who he is, how he rolls (no pun-intended), along with his crew chief. If your a fan of Jackson, I recommend the read! Thanks to Dave Keane (author of the Cars Origins novels).**_

* * *

 _ **Chapter 3 :** 'Here They Come'_

The hall was long, and Melise knew that, but she didn't realize just how long it was. A single window panel stretched the length from her suite, to how far she had moved, several meters down the hall– a 2-minute cruise down the corridor... still another several meters of suites. Each door draped adorned with a mosaic panel that reflected arrays of hues amongst the halls, bringing life to the white-cloud colored walls.

As she drove along– no destination in mind– Melise guessed each racer, or teams, based on the gifts left outside the doors. They must've been left there by eager fans working here, at the hotel.

"Who's... ", She trailed off, inspecting the door innocently. It was a racer, surely, his fans had left a basket of gifts. Melise couldn't figure who the racer was, all she saw was a series of souvenir flags, tinted in a purple scheme. A few letters, a coupon for the hotel's lounge and bar that all the teams received, and some headlight stickers with the number '19' engraved, and 'Octane Gain' on them.

"This is what happens when you live under a rock I guess," Melise murmured to herself, realizing the suite belonged to Bobby Swift, a novelty Piston Cup champion along-side Lightning McQueen, and Cal, the Dinoco racer.

"You don't even know the legendary ones... I don't deserve this job." Her ambient voice reverbed down the halls as she spoke. Melise would never admit it to anyone, but the echoes made her feel powerful, like a goddess of the all the oil on her job.

A series of yodeling echoing though the halls snapped Melise from her trance, she turned to see, Shannon Spokes, the Racing Sport's Network reporter, well known among racers and crew alike, cheerfully grinning at her a few meters away down the hall.

Shannon had her tire pressed against her suite door, holding it open, just a few doors from Melise's room.

Melise– true to her friendly nature, smiled back, as Shannon approached.

"Hey, did you get your coupons for the diner downstairs yet?" the brown car asked, her voice sounding confident and cool, the same way she did on the Racing Network.

"Uhm, no," Melise answered, shyly, honestly. "Do I need one?"

"Well, as honored staff working for the Series, not really," Shannon replied, her eyes scanning over the natural blushy cheeks on the convertible's innocent front end.

"But if you're going to hang out with me tonight for dinner, yes!" Shannon chuckled, rolling the coupon from her tire to Melise's. The young convertible smiled sheepishly as she tucked the coupon under her fender.

"Hi, I'm Melise, just an– uhmuh, oil runner, heh." Melise stuttered, her voice its usual sweet, and traquil tone. She squeezed her eyes shut whilst smiling, and shaking tires with Shannon.

Shannon knew she had to be quite young, maybe teens, but the minimum working age for the PCS was 18 years old. Melise looked like an adorable young woman, the kind that looked cute no matter what she did.

Besides being a little Honda, Melise's paint job was a lovely, hue of a faded peach. Any car could tell it was a natural color to her, as the color faded with her blush to make a rosy-gold hood on the convertible. Shannon remembered seeing that her coat appeared an almost salmon shimmery pink in direct sunlight, with a turquoise tinge reflected around her windows. The metal around her cheeks defined by a rosy blush– a tad darker than her metal.

Those rosy cheeks never seemed to fade away. Big brown doe eyes filled her windshield, with plump lips to match above her bumper. She was like a dollywagon.

In the dark of yesterday evening when she arrived, the girl's manager briefed Shannon about making Melise feel comfortable among the burly racers. She was new after all.

What surprised Shannon most, was that Melise was quite clueless about racing. She had spent a few seconds examining the convertible, as she glanced at a few suites decorated with sponsors and numbers. Needless to say Shannon could see the naïve, but interested expressions spreading across Melise's front end. She didn't know skid about racing, but she was still hopeful. There was room in Shannon's heart for an idealistic car like Melise.

"Cruise and converse?" Shannon asked, as she already made her way rolling towards the suites in the direction Melise had driven from. Melise followed, catching up to Shannon's side.

"So," Shannon began, "what's a girl as delicate as you doing with a job like this? An oil runner?"

"Well, I'm hoping to begin University soon, and the opportunity sounded adventurous."

Shannon smiled as she listened.

"I just didn't think the Piston Cup officials would call me back." Melise replied, true to her thoughts. She wasn't some vehicle in this event.

"You know, Melise," Shannon braked outside a suite, barren of any decorations or fan garb, "In my last 3 years working for the RSN alongside the Piston Cup Racing Series– I've gotta say, you're very different from our previous oil runners."

"How so?" Melise inquired, glancing across the hall, noticing her room a few doors from the one they had stopped at.

"Every oil runner we get is an impressionable little boy. They always want to get autographs, pictures with the racers, and show off– as if they are some vehicle important."

Shannon pulled a unique colored piece of laminated paper out. Donned on the black sheet of paper– a stark contrast to the walls– a vivid deep blue font. She began attaching it to the suite door with some tape stuck to the her rims, signifying that team would be racer here.

Melise read the sponsor name aloud, "Ign-er... no– Igniter, Liquid Adrenaline."

"Yeah, he's one of the new rookies coming to the Series, Jackson Storm is his name," Shannon explained.

Melise stared at the sponsor, imagining the new racer must be nervous to be racing seasoned veterans.

"With a name like Jackson Storm, he sounds like a winner."

She turned to Shannon as she said the last few words, making a circle around to face the way they had come from.

Shannon simply chuckled.

"Many rookies haven't earned their place in the top three leaders of the pack. This guy will have to beat Cal Weathers, Bobby Swift, and Lightning McQueen, good luck pulling that off."

Melise thought about the racing veterans. She knew 'The King' had retired about 11 years ago when she was just a little car. Lightning was a rookie then, and she had heard some broadcasts of his talents on the television from the kitchen, whilst she was painting with her tires in the backyard. Her father loved to watch the Racing Sports Network, and he was also a big fan of McQueen.

Eleven years had passed, and McQueen was still a champion? That was true talent to her, Melise planned to see if she could get an autograph from him. Then wish all good luck on the track, especially the rookie, she would cheer for him, it was good sportsmanship.

"I guess, but I think if he's made it this far... " Melise continued, trailing off, trying to find the words.

"Lets go get something to eat," Shannon giggled, ignoring the IGNTR racer. She began leading the way to the diner. Melise smiled and followed her towards the ramp. It was good to have a friend to talk to.

* * *

The sky blue paint of the renowned Dinoco company was still recognizable in the darkening day. As nightfall rolled in, two trucks idled tire-by-tire outside of the hotel, arriving about half an hour ago.

"I tell you, Rex," the red 'Mack' truck stretched his axles, "I'm betting the 'ol nephew, Weathers, is gonna win the cup."

"Huh, well I'm rooting for your boss-man, Lightning McQueen. I think he's got it this time." Rex replied as Mack sipped some fizzy gasoline from his can, listening.

"Hey, I'm no goof, Rex," Mack chuckled, "Just considering the runner-ups, and my pal right next to me."

"So you, Cal. Me, Lightning", Rex said.

Mack nodded once,

"Yup, and whoever doesn't win, takes a cold blast at the Truck Stop, how's that sound?"

Rex scoffed nervously, "Heh, y-yeah right, pfft." He rolled his eyes, trying to mask the fright.

Mack glanced over, "It's really cold, like those winters hauling through Michigan, and those jets–"

"McQueen's got this..." Rex muttered, not wanting to hear anymore about those loud jets spraying water colder than a Chick Hick's soul.

"Mack!" A familiar voice mused as the revving of an engine approached. Despite themselves, both trucks jumped.

"Who's there!?" Mack hollered, his eyes darted to his left side, as the headlights of Lightning McQueen illuminated the racer's front end, revealing his perfect smile. McQueen made a U-turn to face the two trucks, behind him, his pal, Mater, who idled next to Mack, giggling at the recent display.

Dad-gum, we scared ya?" Mater snickered, "Frank's gonna make you jump outta y'er body when we go tractor tippin' if it that easy"

"Yeah, not gonna happen" Mack said simply, remembering Mater made the request months ago. Had anyone else answered that bluntly, it would've sounded rude, but Mack had a natural friendly desposition.

"We're going to dinner," Lightning said, "Sally and the others are already inside. You should come, Rex you too."

"Ah, I'll finish this can first, then I'll join ya, alright?"

Mack replied, giving McQueen a warm smile.

"Alright," Lightning replied, he looked to Rex, "I'll see you guys later... Oh! And Mack, don't forget to hide those roses behind the tires in my trailer," Lightning reversed slightly then rolled forward slowly, his mouth curling into a grin.

"They're for–"

"Miss Sally..." Mater interrupted Lightning, drawling out Sally's name as if she were a beautiful pistachio ice cream cone.

"Yeah... for Sal. It's almost our anniversary" Lightning said, "Mater helped to pick them out."

"The fresh-est daisies Wal-Mart had," Mater said, Lightning's face was suddenly agitated with a tinge of confusion.

"Mater? Flowers from Wal-Mart? I told you to go the the florist–"

"Miss Sally's gonna love 'em," Mater said in a dreamy tone.

"Or at least pick them from Ornament Valley!"

Rex and Mack exchanged glances, then began laughing at the two cars.

Lightning's face wore an accepting annoyed expression, the one common when hearing one of Mater's antics. His blue eyes turned to Mack, We'll save you a spot at the table." he muttered.

McQueen's engine revved as he accelerated at a moderate speed away, Mater followed suite, still rambling.

"and they was havin' a sale on marshmallows, and I saw those there red daisies, and they reminded me of you..."

"Roses, Mater! They're roses!"

The voices faded away with the tow-truck's laughter filling the air in the distance.

Before Rex could admonish about how it would be if Cal were here listening to the two bicker, another engine and bright headlights reflected off the Dinoco truck's eyes.

"Too bright!" Mack said through clenched teeth, he squinted along with Rex. The black truck's headlights dimmed abruptly, as her voice came in with her turn.

"Sorry about that," Gale said, as she glanced at the two trucks adjacent to her passing position, "it's dark out here." She drove past the two, the trailer displaying an array of blue neon lighting, the bold 'IGNTR' logo, and an innovative number 20, showcased as 2.0.

Mack and Rex stared at the new-age.

"Must be the rookie Bobby mentioned." Rex said after a moment. The blue neon lights still resonating in his vision.

"Well, what's his name?" Mack asked, blinking a few times.

"Don't know," Rex replied simply.

"If he was all big and fast, we would've heard about him, I heard nothing. Just another rook." Rex said, stretching his axles.

"Just another racer."

* * *

 _ **Chapter 3 finished! I hope you're enjoying the mixture of interactions between characters.**_

 _ **I'm trying to update each day or every other day. Hope you continue to read, it'll get more interesting as we move forward. Have a great day!**_


	4. Chapter 4: 'Good Night'

_**Chapter 4: 'Good Night'**_

The hotel chef smiled wearily as he rested his frame against the wall in his kitchen. His sous chef eagerly preparing the next rounds of gas cakes for the hotel athlete guests. Dishes piled the sinks from entrées throughout the night.

"Never thought I'd see the day Lightning McQueen would be dining at my restaurant." the head chef said, as he observed McQueen, and his entourage at their table.

"Or eating your cakes," his sous chef replied, piling four more dishes in the sinks.

"Aye, look," the chef nudged his coworker on his fender, "there's Bobby Swift!"

Rolling up to McQueen's table, Swift took a pie to the windshield before he could utter a 'hello'. Bobby's face held a dumbfounded look behind closed eyes. The rusty tow-truck's laughter filled the diner along with McQueen's and the rest of his racing team. The blue Porshe beside him– witnessing the act, giggled into her tire.

"Today... today, is a good day." The chef said proudly, despite his pies being splattered. If it was on a racing champion, it was no waste.

Across the diner, on the quieter end of the parties, Shannon and Melise shared a table. The two cars had been talking non-stop for the last few hours, and had practically become best friends.

"I'm still having a hard time believing I'm at the same hotel as famous racing athletes." Melise said, a bowl of ice cream re-filled several times sat in front of her.

Shannon laughed loudly despite no amusing words coming from Melise's mouth. She crossed her tires on the table, and rested her bumper on them, continuing her fit of giggles. A bottle of gasohol– nearly empty– was perched on her end of the table.

"Are you well, Shannon?" Melise asked, geniunely concerned. Shannon's laughter spanned off into reoccuring maniacal giggles as her tone when up and down in octaves.

A steady rev of an electric engine turned the two's attention away from each other.

Through the doorway, a few meters away, two forklifts donning a sleek black paintjob, and the number 20, rolled past the dining hall, holding two large duffel bags sporting the same logo. As the two pitties passed through, Melise was courteous enough not to stare at guests, as she observed through the corner of her windshield instead. She was slightly curious of what kind of car the rookie was. With all those neon blue letters sitting amongst a desolate night background, he didn't seem like he'd be 'just another rookie'.

With another ambient rev, a fierce-looking, black night-colored car approached the entrance of the dining room on the quiet-end– the end of the hall Melise and Shannon had all to themselves.

Donning the sides of the car, the neon-blue glow, the same blue forming rings around the tires. A vague design contoured the length of the racer's sharp and stoic frame with 'IGNTR : Liquid Adrenaline' embelished in luminous blue font, just behind his front wheel.

Melise's gas tank turned in anxiousness. The very sight of the intricate and advanced looking racer made the room feel smaller, somehow.

'He must be Jackson Storm,' she thought, as her eyes abruptly glanced up, then back down to mind her own business.

Shannon glanced back and forth from the bottles of gasohol at the unoccupied bar nearby the racer, to her empty cup several times, as if the two were oceans apart.

Jackson rolled at a modertely slow speed, his expression, calm and collected. His grey eyes– arcane but void of any baleful nature– scanned the room briefly as he followed his pitties behind the corridor.

He focussed on Shannon reaching her tire for the bar meters away from her table, Storm's expression etching slight confusion. His eyes turned to Melise, as she was trying to snap Shannon out of her stupor by holding her free tire over the table and reeling in embarrassment– keeping her attention purposely away from the racer.

Jackson's expression turned back to a cool, and relaxed state as he glanced towards the other patrons and racers partying across the restaurant. He studied them briefly, then adverted his eyes away.

Turning his attention back towards the forklifts ahead of him, Jackson's expression became uninterested and bored with the comotion of the diner. His eyes blinked slowly, and remained even less alert than they were when he made his entrance.

He followed the two pitties out the hall, as the idle hum of his electric engine faded away.

"You don't gotta say it," Shannon slurred, as Melise looked up at her, "yup, that was... umm... the rookie."

The sudden hooting and hollering across the diner caught Melise's attention. Lightning was presenting red roses to the blue Porshe. She was staring into his eyes admiringly, blush rising to her hood. McQueen's pitty, the blue forklift, popped a cork off a bottle of expensive beverage. The yellow Fiat beside him smiled at the pair, saying, "bellisimo".

Melise smiled at Team McQueen's party, they seemed like a friendly bunch. Her sight made contact with the eyes of the rusty Tow-Truck, and he grinned back, now accelerating towards her. Melise became nervous, hoping he wouldn't cause her to become the center of attention in the restaurant.

"Well, howdy Miss," his accent rolled off his tongue in friendly yips, "hope you's enjoyin' dinner."

Melise smiled warmly– geniunely, "Yes I am, well..." she raised her tire and emphasized the space between her seat, and Shannon's space in front of her, "we are– I should say," she gleamed. Her eyes never left the focus of the truck in front of her.

"Good ta' see ya happy," he praised. "My name's Mater."

"You're very kind, Mater," Melise replied, "I'm Melise."

"Fancy meetin' ya, May-leese, I was gon' to ask you why you is all alone at a table for two?"

Melise presented a perplexed look at Mater, she quickly looked to the other side of the table, to Shannon– who was no longer at the table.

"Wha- where did she go!?" she asked, to no car in particular. Melise accelerated from her seat to glance down the two halls, one to enter the diner, the other to exit towards the hotel suite floors.

"Yer' friend's gone missing?" Mater asked, searching the diner with his eyes for a car he didn't know.

"Ah, uhm– she's probably–" Melise's train of thought was buzzing in overdrive as she wondered where the spokescar could be.

"Her suite!" Melise zoomed towards the exit of the diner, briefly making a quick turn to thank a confused Mater, onlooking.

After checking the women's restroom to find no Shannon, Melise glanced to the elevator, also at the exit of the restaurant lounge.

She pressed the button, chewing on her tire as she wondered where the woman could have sped off to, 'I hope she made it to her room. Where could Shannon, be?'

The elevator chimed a light ding, and opened to reveal a weary, Shannon, leaned up against the side of the wall. Melise stared, holding in her laughter after a moment of watching Shannon bobbing her hood to the classical elevator music, as if it were death metal.

Upon reaching the floor the two cars shared, Melise began her highlight of the day, pulling a drunk RSN reporter to her suite.

"Next time... don't drink... at all" the convertible pushed her newfound friend down the empty hall.

Without the sunlight luminating the mosaics on each suite, the hallway made up for it with artistic paintings of historic cars.

Shannon mumbled something as her eyes blinked slowly.

With the reporter's suite in sight, Melise accelerated to open the door, then pushed Shannon inside.

It didn't take more than a few seconds for Shannon to crawl on her axles to the bed. She abruptly said, "good night" before almost throwing up, then relaxing into the sheets.

Melise sighed, watching the woman. She never imagined her first full day would be this interesting.

Glancing at the analog clock perched on the table near the window, the time was merely 9;48 PM. The day felt longer than usual, and the fact that it was only ten at night seemed surreal to Melise. Despite the time, she wasn't much tired at all, and when she wasn't tired, she explored.

'I didn't really get to explore today anyway,' she pondered, remembering how she had just made in fifteen miles worth of a drive, before meeting Shannon and changing her plans.

The hotel was just one place, and the Copper Canyon Speedway was just across the road. Melise wasn't a racer, but why not check out how big a raceway was when you weren't just a spectator?

As Shannon began to snore lightly, Melise made a U-turn for the door, when she heard a masculine and stoical voice from the hallway. She idled where she was, not wanting to intrude on whoever it was.

"Not gonna happen," Jackson said, outside of his suite, "those old-timers can eat dinner alone." He had reversed out of his room to get better reception on his phone call.

Ray sighed on the other end of the phone, "you're representing IGNTR, Jackson. Those legends– like McQueen, will be in front of the press at the Copper Canyon race." he lectured.

"Come on, Ray, wasn't it you who told me to lay low, and train until the race?" Storm smiled to himself, waiting for his crew chief to reply.

"I said, train until I get there," Reverham replied simply. "That doesn't mean ignore every car, and not show up for dinner."

Jackson's jaw flexed once, his demeanor relaxed as he thought about Ray's words.

"We talked about 'working on it', Jackson, you need to be more social with the other cars."

Jackson sighed, his frame relaxed, "Yeah... yeah Ray, I remember."

"And I remember you stopped calling me 'Gus' exclusively about two weeks ago,"

Despite the statement being true, Jackson couldn't help but laugh. Ray really was a great crew chief, he stuck by Jackson's side through thick and thin roads. He was there when he had no clue what was to come in the start of his racing career. Ray, Stats, Gale and IGNTR– they all saw something in him when he was just another car in Los Angeles.

"No need to remind me about that," Jackson replied, "you're 'Ray' to me, and only I get to call you 'Gus'... by accident this time around."

Ray appreciated Jackson's unintended, humorous way of apologizing for the first impression he had made when the two first met. In all his years being a crew chief, he had never met a racer as interesting as Jackson Storm. The way he had this ominous– but collected look, the way his voice rolled off his tongue with articulance many young cars didn't seem to possess. The way his face went from the calm expression without a care in the world, to lighting up like he was a little boy again when he saw something impressive or abstract.

But what Ray loved about Jackson, was that he wasn't a quitter. He even said it himself, when he was disciplined at the racing center during his days of tardiness, and rigorous training. Storm made it this far on horsepower and torque alone, Ray just guided him along.

"So the simulator is arriving with the rest of your pitties tomorrow morning," Ray stated, "I'll be around at afternoon... "

The door right beside Storm, and his suite began to open slowly, Jackson turned on his tires, and glanced over.

A convertible, coloured in peach, rolled out of the suite after a brief moment behind the opened door. She glanced at him quickly, then accelerated during her right turn into the hallway, moving out of Jackson's space.

Jackson's eyes trained on hers, scanning her face abruptly. An inquired look slowly spread across his blank expression with each second passing. Her paintjob seemed familiar.

She smiled warmly, as she drove past him down the hallway.

"Hey! Storm, are you there?" Ray's voice on the phone, suddenly came back to Jackson's hearing.

"...Yeah, yeah. I heard you," he replied, turning his attention away from the girl leaving down the hall. She must've been one of those 'groupies' he had heard about.

"If you don't want to socialize with cars, at least train until the simulator gets there," Ray said, "and it's getting late, you should rest up for exercises tomorrow."

"Train or sleep," Jackson summarized.

"I'll head to the track, and do some laps, no-brainer. Ray,"

"What!? Jackson it's late–"

"It was socialize with cars or train, right? You know which one I've always chosen."

Ray sighed, "Just don't wreck yourself out there, or complain about the smell of the track."

Jackson scoffed, "When I've made it this far, the only thing that's gonna wreck or smell, is the old racers."

Ray chuckled on the other end, "Good night, Storm."

"'Night, Ray," Jackson replied, "And... thanks for sticking by my side."

"You're welcome, Jackson, nothing like working with a another rookie."

Jackson smiled, despite knowing Ray couldn't see it, but he knew Ray had an idea it was happening.

With the call ending, Jackson headed out to the Copper Canyon Speedway for a night to burn rubber.


	5. Chapter 5: 'The Track'

_**My mother saw a picture of Jackson Storm on a juice box this morning, and after carefully studying him, she asked me,**_

 _ **"Is that a printer?"**_

 _ **I facepalmed.**_

* * *

 _ **Chapter 5 : 'The Track'**_

Maybe 'awestruck' was an understatement, as the speedway looked larger than life at night. The track was not in use, so most of the large panels of blinding white lights were off. On the infield, perched in the middle of the track, was an array of floodlights, providing some lumonisity, but a car's headlights would have to do the rest.

Melise felt a sensation of frigidness in her gas tank. Sure, exploration was thrill-seeking sometimes, but the size of the Copper Canyon Speedway was megalophobia-inducing.

The front entrance was locked, and for some time, Melise considered going back to the hotel, but the structure was a magnificent dome. She opted to driving around it, hoping to find something interesting with the help of her headlights– a battered gate allowing view into the stadium's track answered her wishes.

She was sure it was illegal, and the thought of getting in trouble made her axles tremble, but Melise was just a curious, small, convertible– what could she do?

"Better safe than sorry," Melise murmured to herself, her eyes trailing over the angle of the speedway her eyes and lights could see from the gate. The parking spaces staircasing up the stands twinkled under the dimmed lighting. An 'EXIT' sign glowed its ominous red in the far distance above a series of white tents– her soon to working station.

The scent of the raceway was another story. Akin to that of a gymnasium, the permanent, but slight stench of burned rubber, and exhaust basted in the stadium.

Tire skid marks littered the pit-lane like a carpet, but the way each turn on the track mounted up the dome, carving a symmetrical curve, almost resembled a drained pool bed.

Glancing up, Melise's eyes widened at the sight. The dome's mega roof remained half opened, each steel support beam glimmering in the moonlight.

The sight brought a shiver through Melise's cabin as she bit her bottom lip, turning her attention back to the track. Some things were truly extra-large terrifying, but also innovative and surreal.

A series of blue lights flickering behind the pits, amongst the array of tents and structures, catching her eye. Melise's eyes narrowed inquisitively, the lights seemed to be moving.

Watching the blue aura approaching the track on the far end, Melise reversed slowly, uncertain. She began low-beaming her lights, as she watched a distance from the fence.

As the glow approached the track, it became clear that it was on a car, as it accented the wheels, and frame. It looked familiar.

Melise's fright settled down as she observed the rookie racer, Jackson Storm. His face remained concealed under the desolate lighting of the arena, as he lined himself up on the track.

The steady ignition of his electric engine came to life, soon increasing to loud and zealous revs that echoed the empty stadium. Within seconds, Jackson accelerated down the track.

As he sped towards the turn on the far end, Melise watched in wonder. Jackson seemed determined, yet at the same time uncaring. He zoomed on like it was nothing special, and as he came down the track, near the fence she viewed through, the immediate reaction was to reverse and hide. She was uninvited after all.

Listening as he approached her side of the track, then zoomed past, engine fading to the other side, was quite relaxing after a few minutes despite not watching him for fear of being seen.

Melise glanced discreetly from the corner of the fence, watching as the rookie racer slowed down to a stop near her side of the track.

His expression was quite clear under the dim moonlight, as he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and then proceeded to drift suddenly. Loud tires screetched in the moody, quiet night.

Something didn't seem right, Jackson looked annoyed, frustrated, and when he skid on his half-doughnut, it was clear. His rear-end faced her, and Melise blinked a few times as the scent and heat of burned rubber hit her.

Jackson didn't seem to mind, he idled there, ready to tear back down the track. And he did.

Melissa hardly hesitated to approach the fence as he rounded the far end. She watched him speed towards her side, slowly increasing her anxiousness as the engine got louder, and then– as fast as he had arrived, he echoed down the track passing her lame spectator spot.

As the glow of his tail-lights sped down the track, Melise caught her voice. She inhaled abruptly, before hollering,

"GO, JACKSON!"

Melise listened in glee, as her voice went up an octave on his name, and made a series of reverbs in the arena. She held a tire to her mouth as she reversed out of sight.

Jackson stopped after a moment, he made a U-turn from his parked position, to face the pits. He scanned the area, his eyes alert, and his expression bewildered. He rolled slightly along the racetrack, eyes trailing the stands to find some car who chanted for him.

"...Whoever you are, show yourself!" Storm shouted, his eyes narrowed after a few silent seconds, and he dropped his guard down. Melise watched silently, as Jackson accelerated out of the arena track behind the pit lane. Racing teams must've had special privileges to the tracks, because she was certain that entrance was locked for her.

She had to admit, she felt foolish for shouting to him like that. Melise must've startled Jackson out of his chassis with that pointless display.

She began driving back to the hotel, as fatigue came. Pondering about the track, Melise thought about what she saw.

'He is fast, he is a force, he is a storm. He is, Jackson Storm.'

Just then, the rookie racer passed across the road, entering the hotel a distance away. Melise's RPM slowed as she approached.

As she exited the elevator, she glanced down the hall to hear a suite door closing. Tip-tiring slowly to her suite, it seemed to take a lifetime to get there, and Melise felt at ease once she was inside.

Her bags remained unpacked, and formed a mountain on one corner of the room. Melise yawned, falling on her axles to the bed. She was too exhausted to move any further.

Today really was a crazy day. And Melise wouldn't change it for anything.

* * *

 _ **(Minor editing to fix the duplicate in the chapter.) I purchased Cars Origins: Storm Chasing from Chapters, and there are copies online, on Amazon, if you would like to get your hands on a novel! I hope you are staying tuned. More to come, Vroom Vroom!**_


	6. Chapter 6 : 'Oil, Oil, and more Oil'

_**Sorry about the duplications and mistakes I've made, this is my first time using this site as a writer, hoping to get better each day. They have been fixed, and I continually edit chapters to fix any grammatical or duplicate errors.**_

 _ **My life has been busier this week, and I didn't get to update yesterday. Here it is, the next part will most likely be posted later today. I already have Chapter 7 drafted. It's where the film begins.**_

* * *

 _ **Chapter 6 : 'Oil, Oil, and More Oil'**_

The Copper Canyon Speedway was full of life as cars drove each and every direction preparing for the late afternoon's race. Some racers and their crew had even showed up to practice on the track, albeit, away from the comotion behind the pit-lane.

A Piston Cup official idled beside a large grey tank. He made a turn towards the seven employees parked in front of him.

Four of them, sporting a plain dark blue paintjob on their metal, and giddy faces poorly masked by the forced, stoic demeanor any professional could identify.

The other two– one of them, red, sporting '95' and lightning bolts all over his front to rear, and the other, grey and covered in 'Octane Gain' stickers. The car in red looked like a speed-bump had hit his undercarriage, his eyes darted left and right with wheels rolling back and forth slightly, searching for McQueen like his life depended on it. The other one looked bored out of his mind.

And the last employee, a girl– a convertible with a peach scheme, she observed the instructor diligently, her excitement was kept timidly at bay.

"As I demonstrated before," the pick-up truck instructor continued, "You will bring any, and all empty quarts of oil to your situated stations to be re-filled."

He glanced back to the large tank behind him, "And each station has one of these oil resevoirs, you simply roll the gauge to the quantity of quarts needed, and press the red button. The tank does the res–"

"McQueen! It's Lightning McQueen!" his red, oil runner fan yelled at the top of his voice, cracking it in the process, and scaring his fellow employees. The instructor rolled his eyes at the display.

Lightning, passing by with his pit-crew on his tail, braked abruptly, and glanced over through gritted teeth and squinted eyes. The volume of the fan's voice was louder than the commotion in the speedway.

"Hey, it's good to see you too," Lightning answered, whilst he glanced between the seven cars staring him down. He observed the red racer, an obvious fan, and smiled brightly to him.

McQueen revved his engine once, and chanted his 'Ka-Chow' bit. "Stay safe," he said accelerating to his pit.

The six of the oil runners began swooning over the recent interaction like high school boys, before their attention was chaste away with a grunt from the instructor. The convertible shifted on her axles awkwardly, feeling out of place.

"Now, if your station is out of oil– unlikely– you can get it from any other station," the instructor rehashed.

"But watch your driving. We've got reporters, pitties, and EMS– all more important, operating the arena as well."

The truck gestured a forklift holding strips of large decals, each one displaying the Piston Cup Racing Series logo.

"Get these guys in uniform," the instructor announced. Each car in front of him now observing the decals stickered to on the pick-up's sides.

"Man, this is so cool," one of the dark blue cars said, his face lighting up as he began lining up behind the six others.

"We all have a long day of training ourselves." the instructor smiled proudly.

* * *

"Here will do." Ray gestured for the tow-truck to drop the wheeled machine. He presented Ray with a discouraged look, pursing his lips as he drove off

"Hey, it's the best we can do for Storm's privacy." Ray answered. He pressed the the release hatch, and the hefty contraption began to unfold itself slowly with a robotic chime. The tow-truck returned, pulling in the rest of the components for the machine, promptly dropping them neatly.

Ray glanced behind him to greet the subtle engines of two approaching forklifts, both donning the IGNTR paint and number.

"Sweet training facility, Reverham," One of the pitties said, sarcastically. He glanced around the dingy room,

"Storm's gonna love training in the hotel basement."

"Well, this is what you get without a training facility. I got him the largest room down here, Leon," Ray replied.

"Now you and Quincy, set up the ramp and Jackson's optimum settings," he began to drive off, "I'll go find our rookie."

When Ray drove around the lobby of the hotel, the last thing he wanted to notice, was that Storm was still in his room. Sure, it was early, but he had been through early morning drills before. Ray headed to the higher levels of the suites.

Exiting the elevator, Ray spotted his rookie down the hallway, staring at the comotion of the Copper Canyon Speedway from the high up hotel window as cars sped in and out.

"Jackson," Ray called, rolling up to him, "big day's here, time to train until late afternoon, then you'll be on the track."

Jackson continued to idle at the window. After a moment he spoke,

"Two guys thought I was a 'wannabe' when I came out of my suite. They saw the sponsors, and everything..." Jackson trailed off, his eyes catching sight of something outside, as he spoke.

"I've got several 'wins' under my hood, several months of training, for this?" he said in a questioning voice. Ray sighed.

"Fellow racers that have a world of fans, insulting the new guy?" Jackson said, as his eyes began searching the cars in the stadium for something he wasn't finding.

"For the love of Chrysler..." Ray muttered, he had already told Jackson to ignore the comments. The rookie always found himself bothered by something, whether it was track marbles, the scent of burning rubber, or losing a video game.

Jackson side-eyed Ray, straightening himself on his axles.

"Someone cheered for me last night, when I was doing laps."

Ray's eyes gave a confused expression. Jackson started his way down the hall, as Ray drove beside him, listening.

"Who cheered?" Ray asked.

"I don't know, but it was a girl."

"Hmm, how did she get in the arena..."

"Not a clue," Jackson pressed the elevator button, listening as the lift approached. "Maybe she was cleaning staff."

"Or a fan," Ray replied. Jackson glanced at his crew chief, he raised an eyebrow at the idea.

Ray observed Jackson's expression. He seemed calm, level-headed, but somewhat curious. His grey eyes must've been searching the chaos at the speedway in the distance earlier for some girl who really didn't matter.

"But it doesn't matter," Jackson continued as the door chimed and announced it was going down.

"I have a race to win."

Ray's face brightened up. The last thing he needed was a Storm headed over this girl's hood after she made her display. He would never admit it, but Ray knew Jackson must've never really hung out with girls. The guys down at the arcade were rambunctious, loud, rough and competitive. This girl, whoever she was, must've heard about his wins online, and wanted a piece of his bumper. That, or she was actually an honest fan of the rookie amongst pessimist veteran racers. Either reality didn't sit too well with Ray, knowing how boys could act when they chase after girls. He had dealt with rookies who fell off their game before when they spent a minute with groupies.

Jackson, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed, and indifferent about the situation.

"Glad you're staying focussed, Storm." Ray said, as the elevator chimed, revealing the hotel lobby. "This way."

The pick-up accelerated to a long hallway past the main entrance. Jackson looked amongst the lobby once, then followed.

"...Where did you put my simulator?" Jackson questioned, as the hallway turned, creating a looping ramp headed downstairs.

"In the basement," Ray answered simply as he pushed open the doors. "It's private, it's quiet, and it–"

"Ridiculous?" Jackson guessed Ray's final words. Ray's face became amused as Jackson's eyes scanned the room, stopping on his two pitties, Leon and Quincy.

"Hey, Stormy," Leon said, perched beside the simulator, ready to be used. "Sim's ready."

Quincy rocked side to side on his wheels, humming some tunes playing in his head.

Jackson glanced at Ray, his face adorning a dumbfounded expression.

"It was here, or the parking lot." Ray smiled. Jackson sighed, then approached the simulator.

The machine's twin treadmills for each front and back tire was still in pristine condition despite being used numerous times before at the IGNTR facility. It's intricate screen displayed an RPM gauge sitting at '0' along with a speedometer at zero MPH. A series of readers lined down the screen, each displaying the rider's drag force, racing line accuracy in percent, and his velocity on turns. The old timer racers wished they could have this sort of cutting-edge technology.

Storm eased his way onto the simulator, his eyes– relaxed and collected. Ray knew this was one way Jackson blew off steam. Racing on the simulator was a calm pass time for him.

"Start it up," Ray said. Leon pressed a golden button on the screen on his computer, side-lining the simulator. Jackson's wheels were locked in place, and the simulator announced, "The green fla–"

Before finishing it's sentence, Storm was racing down the virtual track. His speed gradually picking up from 60mph, to 100mph, racing to 190mph in a matter of thirty seconds.

Leon and four other pitties analyzed the data on the computers as Ray watched Jackson own the virtual track.

Quincy remained in his own world, swaying beside an ignoring Ray.

"Drag, good. Line, ninety-eight percent." One forklift said, scanning his eyes from the computer to Storm.

"Speed, two hundred and five miles per hour. Pristine." Leon said.

"You know, I can go faster than this," Jackson stated.

"Save that for the final lap," Ray said, "everything is looking great, Jackson."

He focussed on the virtual track in front of him, imagining it was the Copper Canyon Speedway just outside. The hollering of the grandstands, the marbles on the track, even the smell of exhaust, Jackson imagine all of it vividly as he stared at the edges of the track, immersed.

In his cabin, all he heard was 'McQueen' chanted over and over, in his own daydream. Who was this guy anyway?

The thought of losing to these old guys made Jackson's gas tank turn. He knew it wasn't obvious, but he relished in the idea of knowing all the cars doubting him now, would be bowing their hoods for him in hours. Keeping his cool was a normal thing about Jackson, as long as things were to his liking, or indifference– which was most of the time– he was as calm as the starry night.

In the end, whoever this 'Lightning McQueen' guy– or 'Champion'– was, he was going down today.

* * *

Shannon smiled brightly as she greeted Piston Series staff passing her station on Victory Lane.

"Hello, nice to meet you," she repeated as each car passed, stopping to shake her tire. Her usual friendly nature beamed.

Chick Hick's accelerated past her, giving her a grin. He headed towards the grandstands, working his way through the commotion of racers and staff alike. His eyes suddenly caught sight of a girl, working hard to measure each quart of oil the tank released into cans. Her eyes scanned over the numbers situated on the cans, and she checked off a sheet when what she saw was satisfactory.

"Well, what do we have here," Chick smiled, "One of Dinoco's girls is working hard?"

Melise's eyes darted to the racer in front of her. She smiled awkwardly while laughing nervously.

Chick's tone became more casual, "what's a young, cute, car like you doing out here, and playing with oil."

"This has to be measured properly, otherwise someone could get a stomach-ache." She mused, her voice resonating confidence only she knew was masked by her normal shyness. Melise was surprised she even pulled it off.

"Ah, so pretty, _and_ smart," Chick drove around her, reading her mark down sheet briefly.

"Stay safe out here, watch out for the big, burly racers." He joked once more, driving off to the grandstands.

Melise sighed, when a voice suddenly came from behind her.

"Hey, don't mind him," A blue race car, donning the Dinoco sponsor said, his voice resonating a friendly and slight southern accent. He smiled at Melise as she turned, realizing who it was. It was Cal Weathers. She returned the kind expression.

"He's like that with everyone, crass jokes." Cal stated, as Lightning McQueen pulled up beside him. He greeted Melise with a nod of his hood and a friendly smile.

"Yeah," Lightning began, "You did all this work by yourself?" His tone resonated honesty and geniality.

Melise nodded once, her expression timid. "Yes," she answered him.

"I knew it," Cal said, "When we stopped getting oil after Lightning gave those boys autographs. We knew someone must be doing the extra work."

"You're doing a good job," Lightning said, glancing at all the oil canisters filled properly.

Melise's face wore a look of confusion, which quickly turned into a smile of thanks.

"Oh, thank... you," she replied as she glanced to see her fellow oil runners playing soccer with an empty canister, while four others adored a signed fender on McQueen's obvious red-painted fan. He cringed away from his pals when they tried to touch the sacred autograph.

"Well, keep up the good work," McQueen said, he glanced at Cal, "we appreciate it."

"Yes," Melise began, "Good luck, both of you." she said shyly. The two racers smiled genuinely.

"Thanks, we appreciate that too," Cal said.

Melise watched as the two began to drive off, Cal said 'Goodbye' while McQueen smiled. She had to admit they both sounded slightly similar, their accents were both southern, albeit, McQueen's faded in and out when he spoke, while Cal's was slightly there. She had seen McQueen on television, heard his voice in advertisements, but only noticed his twang when he was right in front of her.

Melise glanced about the stadium, viewing the mostly vacant grandstands. A few staff relaxed and others used to distance to converse preparation for the race later today.

She tried to imagine what this place would look like later. Screaming fans, RV's clustered in the infield, the scent of oil and exhaust, burning rubber, loud engines reving left and right... Melise genuinely wondered how Shannon did it. It seemed overwhelming even for a RSN spokescar who wasn't racing.

She did another once over the speedway, today was going to be a crazy and different day, and she wasn't sure she was ready for it.


	7. Chapter 7 : 'Brewing A Storm'

_**Chapter 7 : 'Brewing A Storm'**_

When 4PM arrived, Melise was surprised to see the stadium become a parade of screaming fans– young and old, hyped for the race. The grandstands filled with cars from the front row fences, to the far away seating. Subwoofers echoed music throughout the Speedway, and the revving of racers with the scent of exhaust and gasoline, filling the atmosphere.

Melise had been finishing the delivery of several canisters of oil to a number of racers, when she glanced down the pit lane, observing each team preparing. She had to admit, even for a staff member, she was looking forward to the roaring of engines filling the raceway. It was something different, something interesting. Melise's vision suddenly caught sight of something, one of the sponsors, decked out in the same black with neon royal blue paint scheme.

She studied the IGNTR colors and logo in contrast to the brighter, friendly tones lining the pits ahead of it. How could a fuel be so ominous? She glanced down the lanes, observing as teams made their last minute inspections of tires, gasoline, and oil. Ensuring the desired quantities received, matched their manifests.

Shannon's confident voice filled the air nearby. In front of her, idled Lightning McQueen, sporting a relaxed smile for the camera.

"Here, at Copper Canyon Speedway, for the 2017 Piston Cup series, our reigning veteran champion, Lightning McQueen,"

The red race car drawled out his famous, "Ka-Chow," winking for the viewers at home.

"So Lightning, another start to a great day for a race," Shannon spoke, "what are your thoughts for competitors, and rookies alike?"

"It's a great day for racing, the stands are full of excitement," McQueen gushed, as photographers focussed on the legendary man in front of their headlights, snapping shots.

"I think today is going to be revved up on the track, we've got new racers, veterans all fighting for that Piston Cup, today's gonna be great for sure." Lightning smiled to Shannon.

"You heard it here, from the legend himself, not a day to missed for racing fans," Shannon's voice resonating above the roaring crowd. McQueen nodded once, revving his engine as he drove off, headed to the track, other racers tagging along.

"I'm Shannon Spokes, LIVE, from Copper Canyon Speedway, bringing you action from the Piston Cup Series. Stay Tuned!"

The camera man began panning the grandstands as Shannon adjusted her headset, glancing up to see Melise smiling proudly at her.

"Ahh, I thought I wouldn't see you again with all the commotion!" Shannon grinned, "how have you been, 'Hun?"

Melise tried to find the words to express her astonishment with the atmosphere inside the arena.

"This is extraordinary, e-everything!" Melise spoke, her words finding their place.

"You're just like me when I was on my first day of coverage. Awestruck and eager!" Shannon laughed.

The P.A announcer suddenly echoed through the chanting and revving in the stadium, "Brought to you by Canyon Plains, the rocky terrain and mountains lining vast groves. Welcome to the Piston Cup Series, here at Copper Canyon Speedway."

The crowd began roaring louder in excitement as the P.A continued, "Racing Teams proceed to the track, while we ask that spectators, avoid touching, climbing, or shaking the guard fence."

The announcer repeated the safety warning once more, as the arena filled with the smell of exhaust, gasoline and loud revving race cars as they cruised along the track.

"Hey, Melise," Shannon said, the camera man began accelerating towards Victory Lane as Piston Series photographers scrambled towards the sidelines in the grandstands and into the infield behind the pits.

"I have to go now, stay safe, and out of the way of the crew!" Shannon shouted as she followed her Press. Melise took the cue to head back to her own station.

The arena became louder and louder with more screams of faith and chants of ambition. Within seconds, Melise turned her attention to the track, her eyes widening as the racers' engines roared, and the green flag waved brightly across the checkered line.

* * *

Thinking was irrelevant now, all those countless days and nights training, blowing off steam, burning rubber, fueling up gas, it paid off for each racer today.

The cars roared down the track as they entered the first turn. Vehicles in the stands merely a blur with fading and gaining hollers.

Boosting ahead of the top ten, McQueen, Weathers and Swift sped to the top three positions, holding their lines, and fighting for first place.

"Get around these guys on your right," Ray called over the headset to Storm on the track. He watched as the rookie accelerated around, and in front of the two racers.

"Remember to keep your cool, Jackson," Ray spoke. Jackson's eyes focussed on the track as he answered.

"Yeah, but I keep getting stuck!" the racers roared past the second turn of the fiftieth lap as Jackson remained boxed between three racers fighting for eighth place.

"Hey, I've never heard of this, IGNTR?" one of the racers chimed in, behind Jackson, reading his rear.

"Don't mind him, he's probably a poser, we always get those guys sneaking on the track!" another replied, both cars speeding firmly behind Jackson. His front end contoured a dumbfounded expression, as he kept his focus on the track, approaching the turn.

"Hey, they're trashing me, Ray!" Jackson shouted through the speaker, "One of them thinks I'm a damn poser!"

"Keep. Your. Cool." Ray replied, "You've gotta get your hood away from the negativity!" He watched as the leaders sped by, and the top ten racers behind them close on their tails.

Jackson was progressively getting better with his maneuvers around the track as the laps sped on past one hundred, two hundred and three hundred. Entering the pits every 60 to 70 laps, Storm was brewing into a professional with each turn maintaining his position in sixth place. The leaders didn't seem to take notice of him, while fans cheered for them– McQueen, Weathers and Swift– eagerly in from the grandstands. Some even dressed like their idols, decals and all.

"Make your way to the pits," Ray commanded, as Jackson headed down the lane passing staff and on looking teams. Other racers headed to get their tires replaced, following behind him.

Jackson braked in front of his pit crew, as Leon and another forklift began their routine of changing his tires. Quincy filled his tank with gas.

From the back of the commotion and squealing of tires racing out of the pits, Melise watched as racer after racer zoomed by, entering the track like it was a left turn on a simple street. Jackson Storm sped by suddenly, as his neon glow reflected over the metal of her supervisor beside her in a quick flicker. Two racers followed closely behind, panting in unison as they lined up behind Jackson, attempting to overtake him, but lacking the energy.

Melise glanced at the jumbotron displaying number 20 resting in sixth place while lap 398 began. The race was coming to an impasse, as the racers rounded the second turn, lap 399 beginning then finishing with the roar of the audience as lap 400– the final lap, commenced.

Racers began accelerating at their top speeds, their engines echoing in unison as they fought around the first turn.

Melise headed to the start of the pit lane behind the caution line. Engulfed in the excitement, she watched in amazement as the racers approached the second turn, hearing the crew chief of IGNTR announcing his last words to Jackson, meters away.

"Now! Go, Storm! Now, or never!"

And Melise watched the rookie accelerate his engine, it's distinct revs audible in the excitement. He began speeding past the other racers with ease, his teeth baring slightly as he picked up speed through them. Observing the distance of the racers closing the space between the checkered line and the turn, Melise hollered her loudest over the noise,

"YOU CAN DO IT! GO JACKSON!" her eyes briefly closing between her chant, she opened them to a new and unexpected sight from the track.

Jackson Storm, coming out of turn two, staring right at her. His expression changed from it's stern state to a slightly surprised face.

His eyes trained on hers for a moment as his expression calmed, before he zoomed past clocking well over 195MPH on his turn. he zipped from fourth, to third, second, then first, in a matter of seconds.

Crossing the finish line ahead of the leaders, McQueen's front end wore a look of disbelief and shock as Cal and Bobby stared on, mouths forming 'O's' in surprise. The audience was a mixture of cheers and chatter.

In a matter of seconds, everything changed.

Melise reversed in shock as she turned to go back to her station. Team Rust-Eze– all perplexed, and curious of the recent turn out. Team IGNTR celebrated with hoots and hollering, as the crew chief was looking at her, his face warming up to a half-smile. Melise remained in a trance of stupor as she drove, the world around her suddenly foreign.

"And it's Jackson Storm for the win!" the P.A announced.

McQueen and the other leaders slowed down on the track, falling behind the racers accelerating past. The long, anticipated race was over.

Jackson headed for the Victory Lane, driving past the stunned RSN camera crew, grinning behind their filming cameras set on the rookie.

He headed up the Winner's Circle with confidence, cars cheering around him as the confetti rained.

"Relish in the joy," Ray's voice came through his speaker, "You earned it, Jackson."

With those words, a smile spread across Jackson's front end. He smiled to the cameras, listening to the hollering of the crowd.

Storm glanced to his right, seeing Gale backing up his trailer beside his crew. They knew him so well, wanting to get out of the spotlight. Jackson had to admit, he was enjoying the attention right now, but that could wait. He rolled off the ramp, thanking several patrons as he rolled away. Before getting a chance to reply to Ray, the revving of another engine approached, and greeted him in a friendly tone.

"Jackson Storm, right?"

It was one of the old-timers, Mister 'Champion' McQueen. He congratulated Storm on his win.

With all the RPM's increasing in the arena, Jackson's mind bended to the realization he had beaten the odds. His first attempt– magnificent. He said it, he did it, he won it.

The last thing Jackson needed to hear was appraisals from old race cars. The only thing on his mind was the glory of speeding past McQueen, and crossing the finish line.

As the hatch of Jackson's trailer opened, obscene music rang through Ray's bolts as he headed around Gale. He cringed at the volume. Was that supposed to be music?

Jackson approached with a smile on his front, reversing into his trailer.

Gale grinned indifferently as she heard a 'beep' signalling that the hatch was now closed, and headed out of the stadium.

Ray noticed McQueen staring off with a look of confusion as the Press horded after Jackson's trailer. He must've still been in shock from the race, that– or Jackson said something as obscene as his tunes to the veteran. Ray ignored the racer as he thought about the fuel he could bring back to the hotel.

The crew chief headed back to the pits with Leon and two other team pitties following. He tapped his speaker once with his tire, listening as the mic static fuzzed.

"She was beside you," Jackson's voice came in.

Ray suddenly had a dumbfounded look upon his front end. He was uncertain.

"The convertible?" Ray asked, "the one who cheered for you?"

"Her," Jackson confirmed, "she's the one from last night too."

"And how are you sure, Jackson?"

"Her voice, simple." The racer replied.

Ray shook his frame in disapproval, despite only the pitties seeing it.

"Well it's great to see you have a fan, now don't go eating cakes in celebrations, we've got a few more races to get through" Ray changed the subject. He didn't need his racer losing his focus over a single fan.

Jackson breathed a deep sigh on the other end, as if he was lost in thought or tired, sometimes Ray couldn't tell the difference. He waiting for a response, from his racer, it never came.

"So, you have any plans to celebrate tonight?"

"I have plans," Jackson answered, "they just don't involve celebrating. I need to be alone, need some privacy."

Ray nodded once, "Fine by me, just don't get into any trouble."

With that, Jackson turned off the mic in his trailer. He glanced out the tinted windows at the mountainous terrain in the distance slowly passing. He had no clue where Gale was going, but he knew she was trying to get him away from the Press, as Ray had warned about them in the event of a win.

But the mountains didn't matter, they weren't much of a thought. After all, the scenery didn't raise his RPM till he felt like he could move at the speed of light. The screaming crowd didn't make him speed past McQueen to his victory.

Jackson couldn't much believe it, but he didn't give his all, and wasn't breaking much of a sweat catching up to McQueen and his pals. Beating them felt greater than the cheering of a simple arcade audience.

But his engine came closer to life when he heard that girl cheering for him. He had someone– besides IGNTR and Ray, who believed in him, and they didn't know a thing about him.

Who was that convertible?


	8. Chapter 8 : 'Ambient'

**_Chapter 8 : 'Ambient'_**

"I'd hate to hear he won't be going," the posh voice stated over the phone. Ray and Gale in the hotel lobby, accompanied by Quincy and Leon, listened nervously.

"I'm sure Storm will attend," Ray spoke, despite being certain Jackson had already bailed out.

"He knows what his responsibilities are."

"As a spokescar for IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline, Mister Storm is to attend all galas and events hosted by the Piston Racing Series," the representative said in a monotone voice.

"He won, they can't be grateful?" Quincy muttered suddenly. Gale shushed him before the IGNTR official could hear anymore.

Ray sighed, Jackson had been training for days, dealing with minor backlash from other racers, and just won his first race. Now, IGNTR wanted him to attend a 'Champion Gala' hosted by the Piston Series at a hall not far from the hotel. Ray wanted his racer to rest, as they had a long road ahead tomorrow, but it was in Jackson's contract to attend all meets and greetings unless death be upon him.

"I'll– I'll get him to be there in an hour," Ray replied, defeated. He glanced beside to see a nervous Leon, a weary Gale, and a grumpy Quincy. They all knew the rookie had to attend, but it was a means of convincing him to go.

"Great," the rep mused, "make sure he speaks with the Press and gets several photographs. We'll schedule the interviews."

The call ended, and the tone began beeping.

Ray's gas tank turned, Jackson would not be endorsing that kind of attention so easily, unfortunately, he really had no choice as a sponsored racer now.

Gale studied Ray briefly, as he stared off into oblivion, lost in thought. "Ray, why don't you call it a night, I'll talk to Jackson about the gala."

Ray turned to her, hesitation across his hood as he thought about it, "Gale, are you sure you can convince him?"

"Well, I'm sure if he just stops by and does a toast, smiles for some cameras, IGNTR will be grateful," she answered.

"Hmm," Ray pondered her idea, he rolled in reverse, his bumper resting against the wall.

It wasn't a bad idea. Sure, Ray knew Jackson better than Gale, but he wanted the racer to be more social with cars, make some friends besides rivals. Gale was the one, she was friendly, proactive and determined in her role. Unlike Ray, her patience was as long as a highway.

"I'll help too," Quincy said. Gale exchanged" a glance with him, then back to Ray, awaiting his approval.

"Alright," Ray replied exhausted. "But if there's any trouble, don't hesitate to wake me up."

Gale, Leon and Quincy, watched as Ray left down the hall.

"Let's head into the Storm," Gale smiled as she headed for the elevator, Quincy followed, chuckling.

"I'll be down here if you guys are looking for me," Leon said, as Gale waved him farewell between the closing elevator doors.

* * *

The steady idling of Jackson's engine broke the uncomfortable silence of the hallway.

He rolled down the hall, slowly passing his suite. Jackson studied the door beside his room, remembering the 'peach girl' had hurried out of the room the night prior. This had to be her room, although he was certain she probably wasn't in there.

Jackson's expression remained blank as he blinked, continuing his cruise down the hall, he remembered the final lap.

Listening as Ray instructed him to the finish line, and hearing the foreign female voice chanting for him among the blurred array of McQueen fans hollering in the grandstands. Jackson wasn't going to miss her this time, and he caught her, entranced, staring back. Her hood got rosy, and her eyes wide. She looked like a child with her hood in the cookie jar.

He would never admit it to the others, but something about 'peach girl's' indifference to be judged for cheering for an unknown rookie, like him, made winning the race feel all that greater.

But now, he couldn't find her anywhere. It was hardly passed 8PM, and Jackson guessed she would be roaming the halls, the same way she roamed the stadium. There was not a sight of the peach convertible anywhere.

"Jackson?" Gale's voice was a high whisper as she cruised towards the racer, Quincy by her side. Jackson turned to face them, his expression remaining bored.

"Why aren't you at your party?" Gale questioned innocently. Jackson raised a brow, he drove into his suite, not answering. Gale and Quincy exchanged glances, before following him inside, closing the door behind themselves.

"A _party_?" Jackson inquired in a monotone voice, "no thanks."

"IGNTR says you must," Gale replied. "Otherwise their reputation will be stumped..."

"Did they forget who won that race?" Jackson's voice grew louder as he thought about Gale's words. "I did the training, I did the laps, I smoked McQueen, I won the cup."

Gale breathed a sigh as she listened.

"IGNTR is breathing down our backs, just please– say 'Hello' and make a toast, then you can leave... I'm sure." Gale said, her eyes resonating confidence and assurance.

Jackson closed his eyes, breathing a deep sigh, "Alright, alright. I'll go, but just until I've said 'Hi', then I'm gone."

"Gotta make a toast, too," Quincy said simply, Jackson gritted him teeth for a second.

"A toast? You're joking."

"That's what they said, it's tradition." Gale replied.

"I don't have a toast written," Jackson remarked, rolling towards the window.

"Then lets get started!" Gale smiled brightly. Jackson turned to face the two vehicles, bored out of his mind.

"Oh, no, You can take over that. I'm not good for writing crap," Quincy said, he approached the end table beside the bed, minding his own business as he opened a bottle of gasohol stored under his fender, and drank it down.

"So how should it begin," Gale said, grabbing some paper off the dresser. Jackson blinked slowly.

"How's everyone tonight? Were you as satisfied as me when I beat McQueen?" Jackson said, Gale giggled.

"You know, that might not be so bad, but we should add a little more grace and humility to it," the truck began writing, and Jackson raised a brow as he read the sentences.

"IGNTR has been a brilliant sponsor. With all the training, the hard work and the unconventional start, I'm proud to be as talented as veteran racers who have dominated the sport of racing, for years." Jackson said, adding his own paragraph. Gale's face became surprised and enlightened, while Quincy nearly choked on his drink.

"I think these guys will be blown away," Gale chuckled, as she began printing his words on the sheet.

* * *

"Is he gonna show?" Bobby asked the green race car beside him. They watched the guests parked at their tables, most looked bored under the glamorous décor and soft jazz music played by the live band.

"Who knows, man," the Vitoline sponsored car replied, "If I had to attend another party for my win, I might just call it a night too."

"Brick, you had two wins last year," Bobby replied chuckling, "Imagine how many parties McQueen had to attend."

Brick cringed, "You know, I get the celebrations and all, but sometimes recharging the batteries is good enough for me." He stretched his axles out.

"So, where's McQueen anyway?" Brick asked, he pushed his drink towards the forklift waitress as she refilled it a second time.

"Said he was gonna take his girl, the Porsche, out cruising"

Bobby replied, watching the 'IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline' logo glowing ominously behind the stage front.

"The still aren't married?" Brick raised a brow, "they've been together for eleven years." he smiled to the waitress as she headed away.

"He's probably waiting for the right moment... " Bobby said, a laugh creeping in, "…or forgot"

Brick joined in laughing away.

The room suddenly dimmed, and guests became quiet in confusion and anticipation.

"Ladies and gentlemen, here to relish his win, partnered with IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline, the champion of the 2017 Piston Cup Race, here at Copper Canyon Speedway– Jackson Storm."

Applause and hoots rang through the banquet hall as the black race car approached the microphone from the behind the curtain. A half-smile and calm disposition coating his face.

"Thank you, I appreciate it," Jackson said, as the cheering began to die down. "A beautiful, clear night to celebrate."

"When I first entered the track today, I thought I could learn a thing or two from these veteran racers, kicking it hard on the horsepower." Jackson said, as he rolled from the center, to the left side of the stage, patrons nearby containing their awe at his paintjob and sleek, sharp frame. Cameras flashed every few seconds.

"And when the green flag came out, I did what IGNTR and the rest of my mentor taught me best, I raced down that track with the best." He began rolling to the other side of the stage.

"With full horsepower, I saw the three leaders, and gave it my all to be the first rookie of 2017, to win the Piston Cup." The cars cheered.

"A toast, and thanks to IGNTR. They have been a brilliant sponsor. With all the training, the hard work and the unconventional start, I'm proud to be as talented as veteran racers who have dominated the sport of racing, for years. Thank you."

Brick and Bobby watched as Jackson rolled off the stage, and smiled to some fans, posing for a photo with them.

Brick stared on, "I remember when I was a rookie, never won a thing."

"There's gonna be more races, we got the whole season left." Bobby replied. He toyed with the straw in his drink.

Jackson shook tires with Chick Hicks, the retired racer appeared suddenly, startling and both annoying Storm. He kept his negative thoughts at bay.

"Eyy, there's our Stormy-Boy," Chick mused, nudging Jackson once on the fender. "Must've felt great beating McQueen, huh? I know how that feels."

Jackson stared back, his expression bored. "You want something?"

"Wow, you don't beat around the bush, huh?" Chick said, turning to face the racer, "Since you asked, RSN would love it if you did an interview with champion racer, Chick Hicks!"

Jackson flexed his jaw once, his eyes trailing around the room in boredom.

"I'll take that as a 'maybe', which in my world, is a 'yes'," Chick grinned, as Jackson made a perplexed face. The green racer soon headed off, flashing his thunder cloud sticker to some on-looking cars, repeating "Ka-Chigga" a few times with small group of fans. Jackson blinked slowly, heading for the exit of the banquet hall. The gala was boring.

Once outside, headed down the dark street, the racer yawned, stopping at a red light. The hotel was a few blocks away, and he could enter through the back entrance, away from prying eyes.

As the light changed to green, Jackson cruised along the avenue, soon hearing the sounds of water sprinkling, he glanced to the back of the hotel from the road.

Fountains, shining with gold and blue floodlights created an ambient, white noise among the clear, quiet night. Jackson approached the yard with his headlights dimmed.

He was about to pass through the water works, when he caught sight of another car, idling nearby.

It was her, the girl he was looking for. The peach convertible, she was daydreaming, lost in thought as she tapped her tire on the pavement, the other tucked beneath her. Her eyes opened, and scanned the fountains around her, stopping when she met the eyes of Jackson Storm rolling over.

"Hey, you in the peach," Jackson called, unintentionally cornering her, "you're the girl who chanted from the pits, right?"

She looked like a tractor-in-the-headlights as she stared back. She opened her mouth, and thought for a second.

"Yes, I," she glanced down and then back up to his eyes, "I said that."

"Screamed, you mean?" Jackson said, simply.

"I'm so sorry! I hope I didn't almost throw you off your win!" She said, suddenly. Jackson's face became dumbfounded.

"You didn't throw me off, no one can throw me off," he scoffed.

Jackson briefly studied her, noting she looked younger than she probably was. Her hood was rosier than usual, and her eyes were big and brown. By the edges of her windows, the paint seemed to glow in an icy-blue color under the floodlights. She looked... interesting.

Storm's eyes came back to hers, and she reversed a few inches. His eyes narrowed, "I just want to know why you did it."

"Sportsmanship," she answered, her voice less nervous now. "It was good sportsmanship. To wish you luck."

Hearing her speak in full sentences was different. Being used to loud engines, squealing tires, and shouting fans– her voice was like a fan in the background, like ocean waves crashing by the shore. Ambient and somewhat, soothing to the hearing.

"... and congratulations on your win, Mister Storm," she said She began cruising about the yard. Jackson followed, staring back, his eyes calm and half-way open as usual.

"Thanks," he replied, glancing to the scenery surrounding him once more.

"Why aren't you at your party, Mister Storm?" she inquired, innocently as she turned to face him, away from the fountain in front of her. His eyes darted back to her in front of him.

"I don't need to be there," Jackson answered, noticing how small she was. Her roof was painted the same color as her frame, making it questionable if she was completely convertible and not a hybrid of some kind, but the size of her said otherwise. Convertibles were almost always smaller than other cars.

"Well, you're interrupting my party," she said, her face contouring a silly smirk, as Jackson's eyes narrowed and he presented her another look of stupor after glancing around to see nobody, but her. The peach car began giggling, as Jackson's face remained a mix of slight embarrassment and total confusion.

The racer suddenly revved his engine, and she nearly jumped out of her chassis, reversing into a fountain that sprayed her undercarriage before she fell into the shallow pool below. She squealed once, then began struggling to straighten back up.

Jackson's face went from initial surprise as she fell in the fountain, to gentle amusement as she began paddling inside the small pool.

"uh?" he said, confused and unsure. He reached a tire out, and began pulling her from the water.

She coughed, and shivered as her frame dripped water. Glancing in front of her to see grey eyes on a dry, shiny frame. Jackson gave her a half-smile as she stared on, still in shock from the cold water.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Mm-Mel-" she shivered, Jackson rolled forward to hear her better. "Melise." She stated, then sneezed in a high pitched octave.

"Hm," Jackson drove around, lining himself up beside her, and taking her tire. He cruised into the hotel, sporting his usual cool expression. Before Melise could stop coughing to see what he was doing, a large towel landed on her roof, covering her entire frame.

She opened her eyes to see the racer's eyes looking her up and down, "take care," he said, reversing into the elevator. Jackson's eyes remained on hers, until the doors closed.

Melise sneezed again, nearly reversing into the painting behind her.

'interesting night' she thought.


	9. Chapter 9: One Down, More to Go

**_Author's note_** _ **:** **Hello all! I'** **m glad you're enjoying the storm thus far. I saw a vehicle yesterday with a plate reading 'Malise' on it, not a Honda or a convertible, but still interesting and coincidental.**_

 _ **I don't quite follow television or voice actors, but Melise'ss supposed to sound quiet, soothing and kind. Jackson and Shannon described her voice as ambient, which essentially means that it is very gentle sounding tone, one that doesn't disrupt you when you hear it– similar to steady rainfall at night. I hope this helps some more to explain her tone.**_

 _ **Thanks for the reviews. Have a great day**_!

* * *

 **Chapter 9 : One Down, More to Go**

Most likely, it had been about four days, but naturally, when the days are hustling and bustling by, it might feel like weeks have passed.

Melise opened her eyes, peaking to the dimming curtains within her view. A blinding series of sunrise rays were shielded by the fabric. Laying there under the covers for a few minutes, the first thing on her mind was the warm temperature of the quilts covering her– reminding her of the cold water of the fountain last night.

Certain it had to have been some sort of dream, Melise turned, facing the mirror in front of the bed. To her embarrassment, the reality of the event was proven true– on her roof, the white towel– providing extra warmth underneath her quilts.

Melise took her eyes away from the mirror, and straightened herself up. She reached for her phone, sitting on the dresser, and tapped the screen, revealing the calendar event notification:

'last day at Copper Canyon Speedway'

It felt bittersweet to be leaving the hotel. Seemingly, over a span of days, a month's worth of events transpired, and Melise couldn't decide if it was good experiences, or indifferent ones thus far.

If hoping to get a day of no hassles, it was best to begin readying her luggage now. Glancing around the room, she noted the mess of Piston Cup employee guideline papers scattered about the carpeted floor, an array of pens and pencils, with single box of cookies left open from the day before. It wasn't much to tidy, as her bags were mostly left unopened.

She rolled into the bathroom, flipping the light switch on. The sudden scent of chlorine filled the air, and Melise sniffed, curious of the bleach-like smell. Reaching for the shower lever, she turned on the water– then remembered the fountains again. They were public water, and public pools, much like fountains, had chlorine in them– and she fell asleep covered in it.

Melise didn't hesitate to accelerate into the frigid temperatures of the cold water, gradually warming up. Her entire cabin became as numb as a dump-truck's brain, and she bounced on her axles, squealing in the shower for a few moments. The fountain becoming a long-term memory.

As the temperature warmed up, Melise pondered on, droplets tapping her metal, and steam surrounding her.

Jackson Storm was just as ominous as the IGNTR logo on it's dark background. Sure, he wasn't a scary guy, but he was stoic and cautiously curious with a stern face to match. When he made eye contact with her, his grey eyes seemed to be analyzing, yet indifferent at the same time. He seemed to have two usual moods: cool, calm and collected; or stern, stoic and serious. Melise had to admit, he made her feel smaller with his disposition. It didn't help to make a complete goof of herself whilst meeting him.

Leaving the bathroom, Melise took a glance of her paint in the dresser mirror, seeing the hue of peach still natural on her metal. She sighed in relief, then began glancing to the mess.

Sliding her tires over papers and pulling them to her, she skimmed over each sheet briefly, most of them being basic courtesy instructions, doodles of flowers, uniform guides, and a theory of the Piston Cup Racing Series. Tossing the papers in the trash bin, Melise kept the last sheet, interested.

She tucked most of the pens into her suitcase, and left one on the dresser for any new guests. Staring down at the bag in front of her, Melise felt foolish for not really going through it. She had been so caught up in the world around her that she had forgotten what was even inside her luggage.

Opening the suitcase, Melise observed two canisters of flavoured fruity oil, several snacks, two tea towels, an extra quilt, and lip balm. Seeing a clear bottle buried beneath the supplies she now remembered packing, the bottle must've been something her mother put there.

Pulling it free from the chaos of her belongings, Melise sighed annoyed, reading the bottle's logo 'Selene Carsen Rim Polish'. she never painted her rims, why would she need to have it handling oil all day?

As Melise packed the polish back into her suitcase, her cell phone began chiming from the bedside table. She didn't hesitate to roll over, and read the caller ID:

'Vanda Rūūnes (Mother Dearest)'

Melise answered the call, a smile spreading across her bumper as her mother's voice came in.

"Hey, Hun'. How's the last few days been?"

"Mom! It's been so awesome," Melise gushed, she bounced on her axles eager to tell her mom about the arena.

"The speedway is huge, and I got to meet some of the racers. This job isn't so bad–"

"You met some of the athletes!?" Vanda said excitedly, cutting off her daughter, "did you meet Darrell Cartrip!?"

Melise thought over her mother's question. Come to think of it, she didn't see a glance of the Chevrolet Monte Carlo anywhere, only his voice over the loud speakers every now and then, praising McQueen, then Jackson, when he took the lead.

"I didn't see Mr. Cartrip, but I heard him a few times over the speakers in the stadium," Melise answered honestly.

Vanda sighed, her voice expelling delight.

"If I could hear that man rev his engine just one more time," Vanda said dreamily. Melise cringed, then giggled.

"I'll be sure to get you a signed autograph, or a picture with him." Melise said, remembering her mother's first request days ago.

"Aww, thank you, sweetie," Vanda replied on the other end. "And, make sure you don't use all of the rim polish, that's my favorite clear coat."

Melise sighed, "Mom, I don't wear rim polish, you wear rim polish."

"I figured the Manufacturer would pass on my aesthetic of beautiful rims to you," Vanda laughed, Melise rolled her eyes smiling.

"How have you been at home?" Melise asked, breifly checking the suite clock, reading 7:47 AM.

"Good, I bought some plants to hang in front of the house," Vanda said, "They look better than the neighbours orchids."

"Because you have time to take care of them," Melise answered, "I wish I could see them."

"They're the roses you said were pretty," Vanda replied, "remember the roses we saw in the garden outside the airport? The ones before you left for your flight that night?"

Melise's eyes lit up, remembering the beautiful pink flowers, "You found them at a shop?"

"No, but Grandpa found yellow ones, same flowers, different colors."

"Oh, he's there?" Melise asked, suddenly curious.

"Yes, he came over for a little while," Vanda answered, "he doesn't want to pay for satelite television, so he came to use ours." she began laughing.

"He's a fan of that racer, what's his name?" Vanda continued, "Storm?"

"Jack… son Storm?" Melise trailed off, wondering if she was correct.

"Yes, him, I think. He was hollering at the T.V last night, and almost had a heart attack."

Melise held back her amusement, the image of her grandfather waving his cane at the television, yelling at the racers was too much.

"And today is the last day at Copper Canyon?" Vanda asked, the sounds of an oven beeping in the background alongside her voice.

"Yes, we're headed elsewhere tonight, I can't remember the name of the stadium." Melise began rummaging through her bag, looking for the guidelines, not finding the information anywhere.

"Well be sure to stay safe," Vanda said, "call me when you've landed."

"Sure thing, Mom," Melise replied, staring at the box of cookies left open. "I'll miss you, and Grandfather till then."

"Oh! and don't forget to get a picture with... Darrell," Vanda said, her tone becoming seductive as she said his name.

Melise cringed, and said 'goodbye' hanging up the phone. Her mother laughed on the other end.

With the silence filling the suite, Melise quickly grabbed the box of cookies under her treads, and took a bite of one. Her mouth curled into a smile as they were still fresh and chewy.

With her bags packed, she tossed her phone charger in, along with her quilt. The towel Mister Storm gave her, still sitting at the foot of the bed, smelling of chlorine.

Melise would be sure to give it back to the hotel staff.

* * *

"You look nice, Mr. Hicks," the maroon schemed female car said. She began parking across from the racer. He glanced to her, smiling as her looked her up and down.

"Well, you're looking sexy as usual, Natalie," Chick replied, Natalie Certain's eyes squinted briefly as she gave a forced chuckle.

"I see you're already carrying this breakfast from zero miles per hour, to one hundred and fifty?" Natalie said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Hey, I'm just bantering," Chick said defensively, "and this man's faster than that."

"Ahuh," Natalie replied. She glanced around the restaurant, different from the hotel's diner. This one more posh, and elegant, yet, mostly empty.

"So Cal," she began, watching as Chick thanked the waiter serving his sausage and egg platter, as well as her crepes and egg omelet. The former racer took no time in digging into his food.

"... Weathers. Where did he go?" Natalie asked, Chick glanced up to her, his cheeks filled with juicy sausages.

"Maybe Dinoco's on vacation, I dunno," Chick replied after he finished chewing, scooping another serving of egg into his mouth. Natalie stared off into space thinking. Chick glanced across the table, curious of her interest in Cal Weather's disappearance.

"No horns on my grille," Chick answered chewing, "I'm not Tex Dinoco, ask him."

"Mhmm," Natalie said, taking a bite of her omelet, "so Jackson Storm won, what'd you think about that?"

Chick stared at her through chewing cheeks.

"Anyone ever tell you to let a man enjoy his food in peace?"

Natalie chuckled at his comment, "Yes, Mr. Hicks, you just have. But I want to know." Chick squinted for a second, then rolled his eyes.

"He's a fast kid," Chick replied simply. "He beat McQueen... finally. All that yada- yada." He scooped some more food into his mouth, visibly enjoying his meal, not caring for much else.

"Mhmm. Do you want to know what I think?" Natalie said, she crossed her tires and gave Chick a smirk.

He raised a lid, "what do you think, Certain?"

Natalie stretched out her left axle, pursing her lips, "Jackson Storm is a young guy, a young man who qualified, and won in his first race. He's the first of the 2017 generation rookies entering the Piston Cup, and he's done what McQueen tried to do in two years, in a matter of days... win a Piston Cup."

Chick idled, staring at her lips as she spoke.

Natalie continued, "he's not just fast, he's the next step in racing– he's the future of racing... the world is changing. Racing is changing, Chick."

The green race car yawned loudly, catching himself mid-yawn to how rude it was. When Chick wasn't doing his live segments, he just wanted down time. Miss Certain certainly wasn't in for a mellow breakfast. Chick stretched out his axles, taking a sip of his oil. Natalie took no notice of his boredom.

"Well, I'll be interviewing Stormy boy sometime, I'll ask him what he thinks too."

Natalie scrunched her lip incredulously, "You did invite me to take me out this morning, Chick."

His face remained contoured in confusion as he pushed his empty plates to the side.

"I did, and I thought we were gonna a talk about tires, the food, or at least me, but damn, about work?"

Natalie rolled her eyes, pushing her half eaten omelet to the center of the table, Chick jumped from the noise of the plate sliding across the wood. She reversed from her seat.

"I've got a report to write about the season so far, logistics and analysis." She said, as Chick looked on, open mouthed.

"Good bye, Chick," she finished, driving off, and out of the restaurant. He watched with a look of dumbfoundness

"Well then I'll eat your omelet," Chick said aloud, taking a bit of it. "How 'bout that, Certain?"

Chewing, Chick thought about how bad the date went, but more importantly, that he would have to make it up to her before her scheduled appearance on his show. He didn't need his name trashed a second time.

"Hey, waiter!" Chick called. The car approached, empty tray in tow.

"Lemme' get seconds, on everything." he scaled his tire around the table, emphasizing the meal.

"Yes, sir," and he was gone behind to the kitchen in a flash.

Chick was gonna enjoy this date, with or without Certain, he would worry about things later on the private jet to the Motor City Speedway.


	10. Chapter 10 : Cruise

**Chapter 10 : Cruise**

Jackson didn't waste a minute to settle down after he reversed into his trailer. The space was already dark, making him feel more weary than he already was.

Everything was set to go. Luggage, packed. Tires, stored. IGNTR souvenirs, put away. Piston Cup, stored away.

The racer yawned, and closed his eyes. Peace and quiet away from screeching fans was enough for the long trip. Jackson lost track of how many pictures he had starred in with fans, how many autographs and spoilers he had signed as early as 5 AM, to make things more boring, he had to speak with IGNTR over the phone last night for nearly three hours, scheduling interviews, discussing news about training hours at the upcoming tracks, and urgency to avoid the Press unless required to speak to them. Now it was mid afternoon and he was exhausted.

Gale parked beside Ray, watching the trailer getting it's routine inspection.

"He's such a trooper, not even breaking a sweat." Gale beamed, she glanced to Ray. He raised an eyebrow, staring at the trailer.

"Knowing Jackson, he's probably catching some Z's now."

Ray always noted that Jackson was keen to keeping his weaknesses, even simple normal things, like fatigue at bay. He had grown from a brash trainee racer to a professional within months. During that time, the race car had gone from random outbursts of annoyance, to a reserved stoic car. Ray appreciated the effort, as he only had to tell Jackson once, and he straightened up gradually on his own.

"Good to go," the inspector said, nodding his hood once, "have a safe drive, Beaufort."

Ray waved 'bye' to Gale, and she hooked herself up. She took a glance back to Ray, and smiled, starting her engine. As she exited the stadium, the other racing team trailers– assortments of bright colors around the black trailer.

Thankful of the Piston Series officials, Ray had been given news that there were several simulators, the same model as Jackson's, waiting to be used by arriving racers. Less hassle not having to transport the big machine everywhere.

"Alright, I'm not going to need to carry along the simulator this time," Ray muttered to himself, thinking over the new information he had been briefed with. He headed back to the hotel a final time to finish up final preparations, and to make sure his racer didn't leave anything behind.

* * *

"... McQueen fans, sharing the same surprise and some, contempt, with the rookie's win."

The Vehicular News reporter stated in the final portion of his segment.

Quincy flipped the channel, seeing a similar report on Jackson's win. It felt damn great to be a member of this team.

The forklift peeked outside of the small room inside the trailer, Jackson was still, his taillights off, as soft, almost, inaudible snores filled the dark room. Quincy's face changed from a look of excitment to a sigh of annoyance seeing the racer napping.

"Why sleep when you could be celebrating?" he whispered, closing himself back into the room. Quincy glanced about the room, finding his bottles under the pile of tires in the corner. He popped the cork off of one with ease, downing half the bottle in one swish. He parked himself in the corner, thinking about whether or not Jackson would be up for getting wasted, or partying and getting drunk instead. The racer didn't seem to be very social, so wasted in the trailer it was. Quincy tucked several bottle away to the side, leaving himself with two unopened bottles of fresh gasohol, and one nearly finished.

"To... uh," the forklift thought for a moment, "to IGNTR, beating the other guys' tailpipes... and whatever else."

Quincy downed the last drops of the beverage, reaching for the second bottle instinctively. He opened it with his front bottom teeth, and began gulping.

When Jackson felt the trailer jerk to a stop, then head around traffic, his eyes opened in a series of slow, unalarmed blinks. He glanced to the windows, seeing the day had reached evening, the sun hovered just above the trees in the distance.

Jackson rolled out his axles, reading the digital clock above the trailer door.

 **6:49 PM**

He cringed slightly at the time, he knew it was about 4 PM when he dosed off, but now it was practically nighttime.

He just needed to focus on the next track, the next race. He knew it had to come easy, Jackson barely felt his engine giving full horsepower as he sped pass the other racers.

A thud echoed through the trailer, and the race car glanced to the floor suspiciously. After the sound repeated itself a second time, Jackson's eyes lined their way to the trailer's backroom.

A series of knocks on the door lead to no answer, so Jackson pushed the door open with a single tire. His face contouring squinted eyes as the light inside blinded his dreary eyes, used to the dark.

"Two points," Quincy said, tossing an empty gasohol bottle into one of the tires, the bottle making a loud clank as it made contact with the blue rim inside. Jackson's eyelid twitched in a dumbfounded expression at the sight. He watched as Quincy's second toss bounced off the wall in an utterly horrible aim. The bottle rolled along the floor, towards Jackson's left tire.

"Oh... oh... it's still goin'" the forklift slurred, watching the bottle roll, and eventually stop against the racer's tire. Quincy's eyes trailed up, meeting Jackson's grey, hollow stare.

"Aye, that's my man," Quincy said, giving Jackson's tire a handshake the race car was uninterested in returning. "I saved you some," he pointed his lift in the direction of merely three liquor bottle left unopened. Jackson studied the bottle for a second before realizing exactly what Quincy had been up to.

"You were drinking," Jackson stated, his eyes narrowed at the mess, a single broken bottle lay among the tires, the several others, scattered around the floor. One bottle, inside the imaginary basketball net of race car tires.

"You don't wanna celebrate with your pal?" Quincy asked, stumbling on his tires.

"I've celebrated enough," Jackson replied, looking the forklift down incredulously. "Clean this up." The race car began reversing out of the room, his eyes disassociating any interest further.

"Aye, wait,"

Jackson's eyes focussed on him, addressing his pitty.

"Can you sing?"

"No."

"Sing me a song," the forklift smiled as Jackson's face became dumbfounded once again.

"What? No, clean this crap u–"

"Tell me a story," Quincy asked out of touch with reality, he parked himself in front of an annoyed Jackson Storm.

Jackson stared back, annoyed with Ray for bringing the alcoholic aboard his trailer,

"Just go back in there, and don't come out until I say so," the racer said. Quincy grinned, then rolled his way back into the room. Jackson closed the door, glancing outside the window. Still plains and trees, still a long journey. He sighed, Gale would eventually make a stop to recharge, hopefully, Quincy would be out of it by then, maybe puking.

Ray had told Jackson to keep his cool, focus on what mattered, the Piston Cup. There was a new day coming up, and a night to recuperate.


	11. Chapter 11 : 'You're International'

**I love the reviews, you are all so kind! And once again, thank you for telling me about any errors in the typing, formatting, etc. I will be sure to check out your fanfictions soon.**

 _ **It's so sweet of that some are shipping Jackson and Melise as a couple. You know, Jackson would probably cringe at the thought of hugs and kisses, but everyone deserves someone right? I think 'StorMelise' is quite creative and fetching, neat! Jacklise and Malson are kind of funny! Still great nonetheless.**_

* * *

 **Chapter 11: 'You're International'**

Fine-lined drapes colored in a sandy-brown– the carpets didn't match much, with white walls and paintings of historic cars and mosaic decorations here and there. The hotel accented a boring feel to the eyes. The only thing memorable was the moderately comfy suites, and the memories shared. The fountains were graceful too.

"Alright, everyone's set?" the pick-up truck, The Supervisor, asked. He scanned his employees, all with their luggage in tow, hardly acknowledging him.

"I will be giving you your assigned seats when we reach the airport," he continued. Melise listened quietly, looking elsewhere, pondering the hotel. She would miss this place. It felt surreal to be leaving already.

The Supervisor glanced back to the arrows of the clock, and down to the notes in front of him. He dismissed the rowdy boys chattering away, ignoring him. They would all be leaving Copper Canyon soon enough, and he could go to bed in peace soon enough.

Melise felt a very light tap on her roof, as if some sort of liquid had dripped on her. Her hood raised as she peered up, seeing no drops of water or dust of any kind. Before she could turn, another tap hit her back bumper, and she nearly jumped from her chassis, her luggage in tow falling over. A series of chuckles were heard behind her, and she turned around, embarrassed.

"Hey, sorry... I didn't notice a car was there!" it was one of her co-workers, one of the dark blue cars, snickering. There were some teared sheets of paper next to him, forming crumpled balls to launch with the flick of a tire. An array of balls sat around the floor near his friends ignoring the conversation between the two, already rained upon them.

Melise frowned, straightening her luggage tow, and placing her bags back inside. She turned away, pretending to be interested in the ugly bright yellow vase perched on the table nearby. She twiddled he tires briefly, and stared to the floor, nervously.

"Are those your real eyes?" the same guy asked, rolling over to her. Melise's eyes adverted to his license plate on his front- a rare sight on many cars- reading 'TONY', she made eye contact with him, her front end showcasing a wide eyed, expressionless look.

When she didn't answer him, Tony gave her a squint of his eyes, "'cause they're too big."

"Chrysler dude, right in front of her? Whoo..." the boy covered in Octane Gain stickers replied, hooting his last words, a distance away from the two. Tony glanced to him and both began laughing.

The Supervisor soon announced they were to head outside, as they had an evening flight to catch. Melise was grateful to have a way out.

Her face wore a look of confusion, embarrassment and hurt. She reversed away, turning towards the exit of the hotel, and following The Supervisor to the main road. The others followed in pursuit, Tony, showcasing a grin.

As the hotel gradually disappeared along the road's horizon, Melise felt a sense of loneliness being out of the confines of the comfortable suite. The street and building lights luminated a city of life as the main road merged into an avenue. The vibrations of trucks and 8O8's from a nearby club brought adventure to her hearing.

As the highway appeared behind a grove of trees, Melise merged her way down the ramp, gradually picking up speed. She never particularly liked the freeway, as there were so many things that could go wrong travelling faster than the normal roads, but after many times travelling with her mother when she was younger, it became a decreasing fear.

As the wind whipped across her roof and windshield, Melise imagined she was on a race track. The roads didn't curve much like a speedway, and the speed limit was lower. Factoring those conditions, Melise noted that the cars weren't packed close together- in fact, there weren't much cars in her lane at all.

'How do they do it?' she pondered, imagining how race cars like Lightning McQueen, Jackson Storm among many others manoeuvered the track at higher speeds than this, packed in like they were in a parking lot.

Melise focussed her eyes above to see a plane rocketing past, headed to the airport of her destination. The sudden thought of sharing a seat with one of her fellow oil-runners made her gas tank turn in disgust. What was the point of being mean? What did she do?

It didn't matter anymore. Melise knew herself, she knew her ethics. Ignoring was on the menu, and she would take it. No retaliation, no arguing, no fighting.

She peeked through her rear-view mirrors for signs of her co-workers, only seeing the lights of several trucks, a Dodge Caravan, and another plane far in the distance. She sighed, a smile gradually creeping to her front end. Even if they were keeping up with the traffic, she wouldn't fret, she knew how to handle it.

Tony listened briefly to the airport P.A system announcing a delayed flight out to the Caribbean due to weather conditions. He glanced to the mass of luggage travelling behind the passport terminals.

"Why can't we get VIP transportation?" he asked, turning to his supervisor. The pick-up truck turned abruptly, giving the young man an incredulous expression.

"Because you aren't VIP as an oil runner," he answered simply.

The other boys were at a shop nearby. Three were browsing the fake gold rims with glee, as the grey Bobby Swift fan boy laughed at his fellow McQueen fan boy gushing over some 'Lucky 95' glow-in-the-dark rims.

"...And because it's in the airport, it's so affordable!"

"Nah, dude it's just cheap," the grey car, covered in 'Octane Gain' stickers laughed.

"Screw you guys, you probably buy discount mud flaps at the dollar store."

The airport P.A croaked to life, the feedback causing some travelling cars to cringe. Melise, playing on her phone, glanced to her supervisor, already headed to the aircraft entrance, gesturing with the point of his hood, for her to follow- a wave of his tire for the others to head their way.

"All passengers boarding Flight 0188A, to Nashville, Tennessee please proceed to Gate 2. This is a final boarding call for passengers boarding Flight 0188A, bound for Nashville- "

"Yeah, yeah, we heard ya!" the same grey colored car said, rolling his eyes. Tony turned to him as they idled, waiting to board the plane behind Melise.

"How do we know she isn't getting boned by one of the airport cops while she's talking over the P.A and gets turned on knowing no one knows, man?"

They all began laughing hysterically as The Supervisor struck the boys a look of sheer annoyance. Melise sunk on her axles below the confrontation she was idling between.

Once the Supervisor drove around her to confront the boys, she turned to meet the smile of a forklift flight attendant.

"Boarding pass, and passport please?" she asked the convertible. Melise rolled her left tire and the boarding pass, above her opened passport, came into the view of the woman. She smiled kindly after a moment examining it, dismissing her to the cabin of the aircraft.

Melise listened as her boss kept his voice at a moderate tone, laced with anger addressing the inappropriate behaviour.

She rolled through the cabin, meeting the eyes of strangers who promptly smiled at her. Melise soon found her seat, a gleeful grin spreading across her mouth as she saw it was a window seat.

After settling in, Melise turned to see her fellow oil runners- the quiet three of the pack- seat themselves nearby. Two in the unoccupied lots beside her, and the other in the isle seat beside Tony and 'Mr. Octane Gain'. The last one, 'Lucky 95' parked behind them- The Supervisor parking beside him shortly thereafter.

Thank the Manufacturer, this was going to be a peaceful flight.

* * *

A sweet smile spread across Shannon's lips as she watched Melise roll into the new hotel, bags in tow. The convertible looked awestruck as she stared upon the royal purple curtains accented with white on the dimmed interior. Floodlights luminated the the room like it was a banquet hall. Expensive chandeliers surrounded the twin series of curling ramps leading up each floor, a large, long purple curtain draped down the center. They had been decorated with little ornaments related to the Piston Racing Series, namely, 40 karat gold, and genuine silver mini Piston Cups that shimmered with the reflection of passing rear view mirrors on each ramp.

"You look impressed!" Shannon mused. She glanced behind Melise to see her supervisor entering the hotel, and promptly making his way to the receptionist, but none of the other six oil runners in sight.

"It's magnificent," Melise said, taking her eyes from the scenery, to Shannon.

"So," Shannon began, approaching the receptionist line, Melise following, "how was your flight?"

"I fell asleep for exactly 5 minutes of the three hour journey," Melise giggled. "I'd never imagined I would fall asleep on a relatively short plane ride. It was peaceful and the food was okay."

Shannon smiled and waved as some cars entering the hotel, began bouncing on their axles when they saw her.

"Well many staff have been complaining that this year's oil runners aren't up to par..." Melise frowned turning to look at Shannon head on, lost for words.

"Except for one. An adorable peach convertible," Shannon winked. "You've been doing great, Melise, some of the staff, and even crews appreciate your extra effort for your slacking co-workers."

Melise's front end brightened up, and her mouth began to drop open. She hadn't even realized the extra juggling of oil cans as her fellow employees watched every second of the race was worth it.

In fact, if Melise was being praised for the efforts Tony and his meddling pal lacked, she had no reason to be intimidated by them.

"I didn't think I could be of so much help, thank you," Melise answered, genuine in her soft voice. Shannon smiled bright.

"I think you meant, 'you're welcome', Melise." Shannon chuckled.

"Where are the other guys anyway," Shannon asked, briefly scanning the room.

"I think I heard them say they wanted to go to one of the clubs nearby, or maybe a bar," Melise replied, indifferently.

The two began cruising side-by-side through the elegant hotel after registering Melise's room, and receiving the key card.

"Welcome to Wheelsworth Inn, guest room 304," Melise read the card.

"The Series usually tries to arrange racers to be in rooms matching their racing numbers," Shannon stated, Melise's expression became amused. "Good thing we'll be a floor or two away from those revving engines."

"Well, I better go settle in my stuff, I'll come back downstairs afterwards." Melise said, glancing up the twin ramps leading to a series of floors she could merely imagine.

"A-OK!" Shannon chanted to her, heading up one of the ramps. "I've got to go back to the Rooftop Venue, there's a meet and greet going on, you should come!" The shimmery brown car was soon gone.

Melise didn't waste a minute, her suite awaited. She cruised cautiously up the marble ramp, glancing at the mini Piston Cups hung from the large centerpiece ribbon. This place was an elegant contrast to the Wild-West atmosphere of the Copper Canyon's hotel. She just hoped she wouldn't make a fool of herself if she ran into any racers this time around.

Flashing lights of paparazzi and rim-attached fan cameras blinded the hotel entrance as Ray cruised through, squinting his eyes among the hollering fans. He made a U-turn and turned to see his Jackson following in at a moderate speed, eye's half closed and expression in a half-smile.

"WE LOVE YOU, STORM! WE LOVE YOU MAN!" A male van shouted as security blocked the door, and sight of the racer.

"Everything's all in order, your room is ready for you." Ray began, glancing around for anymore rowdy fans. He turned to Storm, watching the familiar sight of the racer staring in awe of the elegant hotel.

"Now," Ray said, calculating Jackson's possible reaction.

"I have to attend the Meet-&-Greet venue on the skyline roof." Jackson said simply, taking the words from his crew chief's mouth. He turned his eyes back to Ray, seeing his pitty, Quincy pulling up beside the crew chief. "Yeah, yeah, all that jazz IGNTR wants me to do."

"You'll get more simulator time after that's over with," Ray replied, watching some cars pass by, staring at the racer with stars in their eyes.

"This time you won't restrict me to just six hours?" Jackson asked, paying very little attention to any fans.

"You just had nearly seven hours on the thing. There's a world outside of the virtual racing, Jackson," Ray said, slightly annoyed with the young racer.

Ray breathed a sigh, "Just be a good sport, make some friends."

"Look Ray, I'll save friendships for when someone else actually wins against me," the race car replied, his voice dripping with cool confidence. Ray exchanged a glance with Quincy, who grinned in return, before heading out of the hotel, into the dying down flashes of phones and digital cameras.

"So a venue on a roof, huh? Must be something," the forklift remarked, glancing down the length of the intricate ramp as Jackson showed little interest in his question. The racer looked about the the marble flooring, and dark royal colors accenting the walls of the top floor. Balloons colored in dark blue and black lined each doorway, with ribbon Piston Series banners hung in front of normal hotel decors.

"Nice choice of colors," Jackson said, scanning over the balloons. He cruised down the hall till he saw Shannon greeting racers and their entourage just inside the roof entrance. Security officers idled inside by the skyline entrance and outside, a red-rope allowing VIP cars into and out the venue. Fans stood at the sidelines behind the ribbon, eagerly waiting for more of them to be let in.

"Ah, number 2.0, greetings," Shannon said excitedly, as the IGNTR racer cruised pass her, giving her a nod of his hood as the red rope was opened for him, and his pitty. Jackson's eyes scanned the glowing decor of the skyline party, seeing no familiar faces or importance to him. Quincy accelerated immediately to the small bar, leaving the racer to his usual solitary.

Jackson's jaw twitched at the sounds of excited fans roaming the small party. They squealed, they hollered, they jumped around with their Piston Cup souvenirs. He couldn't stand the barking of annoying fans, especially if they were his own fans.

* * *

When the door opened, a creak was hardly heard on the swinging frame. The room, a royal purple color donning the walls, and a large frame of a castle with a moat perched on the bed head wall. A black cushioned sofa, a coffee machine, and a large bathroom made the suite more heavenly than Melise could imagine.

She set down her towed bags, and cruised around the room, a smile across her features and she viewed her home for the next few days.

Snapping out of her wonder, Melise reached for her phone, ready to call her mother.

"Melise! Grandpa's a huge Jackson Storm fan," Vanda said, laughing on the other end.

"I think you'll have to get him an autograph or picture of that race car."

"What an interesting greeting, mom." Melise replied. She thought about the embarrassing first time introduction with the racer, her gas tank sank at the thought of the race car. She couldn't tell them how she had first met him. In the background, the sounds of her Grandfather chanting to what must be a live re-run of the Copper Canyon race televised were clear.

"Aww, sweetie, I'm glad the flight was safe, " Vanda said, "all set at the hotel now?"

"Yes, it's like being in a world class hotel. Like a banquet hall." Melise said, practically gushing.

"It's that five star hotel for athletes in Nashville, the Wheelsworth Inn?"

Melise studied her key card again, "In fact, it is..."

* * *

"I'll take two more," Quincy said, turning to look at Jackson Storm several meters away, uninterested in the conversation, "one's for our champion."

The bartender–a large grey SUV– grinned to the forklift with three empty glasses of champagne beside him.

When Quincy rolled over to the racer, Jackson took little notice of the glass place in front of his tire. His eyes scanned the skyline, bored. Some fans snapped a photo of the racer a few feet away, and Jackson immediately sported an annoyed look at their presence. They were too busy grinning into their phone gallery to notice the race car grimacing at them.

When Storm turned on his wheels to the exit, a glimpse of the peach convertible was in his sight. She idled beside the RSN reporter, just inside the doorway. The two were chit-chatting like friends, while the guard let some fans inside.

Jackson studied her- her paint scheme appearing a glossy, aqua color under the reflecting blue lights. She reversed slightly, turning to face her friend, a cheerful look upon her hood with a bit of blush in her smile.

'What was her name again?' Jackson thought, narrowing his eyes. 'Maisie? Melissa?'

All he could remember was it was some unusual name.

Her expression changed slowly in twee to an innocent stare as she listened to the reporter explaining something to her.

"Hey, Storm! Can we get some pictures with you?" Jackson turned to see some new fans- three of them- to his side. They smiled when he looked at them.

"Not now, but here," the racer answered, "I'll sign your fenders."

Melise glanced inside the venue, not much interested in going inside to socialize, as she listened to the R&B music tunes from the speakers.

She could see some racers chatting with fans, and taking photos with them. Some appeared to be new racers, as she hadn't noticed them before.

Melise's eyes trailed across the room, a small smile across her lips as she watched the excitement, when her eyes soon met the grey stare of Mr. Jackson Storm. He had just finished printing his signature on the fender of a young male Corolla, the grey font showing perfectly on his red paint job.

Her cabin felt like cold water rushed through it, and she stared back to the racer, giving him a sweet smile, before quickly turning to Shannon as if she had been called by her. Blush rose to her hood.

"Madame, a snack?" a waiter parked himself in front of Shannon and Melise, addressing the convertible.

"Uh, um, sure!" Melise said quickly and aloud, the waiter reversed slightly, as she made her display, lowering his tray to her.

The food consisted of a single large meatball, shish kabob between two roasted and seasoned tomatoes. Melise had to admit, it looked and smelled delicious, she helped herself to one, thanking him as he drove elsewhere.

She quickly bit into the meat, and Shannon giggled as Melise tried to eat it innocently without making a fool of herself. She could feel Storm's eyes on her.

"You're such a cute little Honda!" Shannon puffed Melise's cheeks with her tires, giggling.

Jackson's eyes turned to some loud groupies, huddled around a bright green, new rookie racer. The new racer grinned at the young women squealing and making silly faces in photos with him.

He adverted his eyes back to the convertible, minding her business, and chewing her meatball. She made them look like little kids, her elegance and reserved nature making her seem to glow among the loud guests.

Quincy glanced to Jackson's untouched glass, and followed the racers eyes to see a lovely- looking Honda, her front end laced with blushed cheeks on a peach fibreglass frame. Jackson's mouth hung open slightly as he watched her with his same usual relaxed eyes, as if she had ten Piston Cups on her hood.

"Hey, there's Swift!" Quincy said suddenly, Jackson's eyes turned to the approaching purple race car. The Octane Gain racer's mouth was tugged into a grin as he headed towards Storm. On Bobby's tail, the same newer, high-tech car in green- N20 and '68' donning his hood and sides, smiling to guests.

"Congratulations on your win, Storm." Bobby said.

"Yeah, that was awesome, man," the green race car said, amazed. A grin spread across Jackson's front.

"Thanks, I appreciate it," Storm replied. He turned to the green car.

"This is H.J Hollis," Bobby stated, the green racer smiled. "His first race is coming up here, Speedway of the South."

"Hey," Hollis greeted Jackson- he nodded his hood once, cool grey eyes addressing the new rookie.

"Good luck out there, Hollis," the IGNTR racer answered, "You might need it," he began reversing, dismissing his interest in the two men.

Jackson headed towards the far back of the venue, Quincy followed, snickering at the confused racers reaction, Storm was indifferent.

"Uh, thanks... I think," Hollis replied, caught of guard. He turned to a blank faced Bobby, not much phased and seemingly, uncaring.

Once out of most cars' sight, Jackson turned to an inquired faced Quincy, "Tell her," he pointed his tire, clear in the direction of Melise, "tell 'Peaches' to come over here for a minute, I've got to ask her something."


	12. Chapter 12 : 'Simple Things'

_**Author's Note:** I tend to think through each chapter diligently as I'm piecing them together, but I also try not to ramble on. I hope continue giving each of you something to look forward to during each update. This story is supposed to be slow, I think it's a good way to capture the feeling._

 _Melise's name is pronounced like 'Elise/Elease' with an 'Mmm' in the beginning. The pronunciation and dialect of the 'Mel' syllable can be said like 'MEL' or 'MAL', depending on how one see's fit._

 _'meh-LEE-s'_

 _'mah-LEE-s_

 _I doubt Melise would run anyone over if they pronounce it either or._

* * *

 _ **Chapter 12 : 'Simple Things'**_

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard me," Jackson replied, he pointed at 'Peaches' again, "her."

Quincy stared her down one last time. The convertible was minding her business, eyes wandering the gathering inside. She was next to Shannon Spokes, the well-known RSN reporter, who was conversing with a Civic, also donning the RSN logo beside his fender. The two were chit-chatting, leaving the girl out of the conversation.

The forklift bee-lined through fans and racers alike, past a smirking SUV bartender, and to the lonely convertible.

When she caught sight of Quincy, Melise immediately felt nervous. Despite the darkened environment on the roof venue, she wouldn't miss those bold letters of '2.0' on sleek black metal. She remained composed, keeping her eyes on him, as he returned a smile to her.

"Greetings, Miss," Quincy began, attempting to sound like a savvy businessman.

"Hello..." she reversed slowly, eyes trained on him. Fans lined up behind the red rope turned their attention to the exchange between the two.

"I'm here to give you the deal of a lifetime," the forklift continued, grinning, "to personally meet Piston Cup champion, Jackson Storm!" Quincy became confused upon seeing the girl's windshield form an alarmed expression. She had already made up her mind.

A few fans began hollering, wishing for the chance to even get this close to the race car.

Melise was not expecting this attention. The last thing on her mind was conversing with the same guy whose engine revving was as loud as a jet plane, and saw her fall in the fountain bed.

In fact, the matter wasn't just awkward-ness associated with seeing Mister Storm, but among being socially awkward and in front of cameras... and Jackson Storm was staring at her, and random cars were all around the place- and Jackson Storm was staring at her, and there were no more meatballs, and Jackson Storm was staring at her.

"I have to go," Melise whispered suddenly, her eyes following the hallway as she made a turn away from Quincy. She began cruising away, Shannon waved 'bye' to her, then continued her lively chat with the other reporter, indifferent to the events she missed.

"Hey! Wait!" Quincy shouted from the red roped entrance, "Storm doesn't bite, and he's not as dumb as a dump truck!"

Jackson, watching the display from outside, sported a confused look on his hood. He couldn't hear a thing over the loud fans left and right chasing racers, but he heard Quincy's nonsense when 'Peaches' rolled away.

The racer's expression cooled down to it's natural state, and Jackson surveyed the roof. Among the sunset setting behind skyscrapers as tall as the hotel– or taller in the distance, he noticed a back exit, probably a discreet exit for racers.

Storm accelerated through the exit doors, scanning the new room he was in. Some forklifts pushed a cart of fancy beverages into the venue, passing the racer with a smile. The room looked like the interior of a empty banquet hall. Jackson left the room quickly, soon finding the hallway leading to the red-ribbon entrance. He didn't bother turning around to address the hooting fans caged behind the rope, watching him in the distance. If this hotel had fountains, he knew where to go.

When Melise reached the bottom of the intricate ramp, the main floor, she began to cool down. Taking a breath, she sucked in her bottom lip, and closed her eyes. Hopefully those fans at the door would get the 'Deal of A Lifetime'.

Melise began reversing, and felt her bumper crash into the metal of another car. Her oil pressure skyrocketed.

"Uh, hey," a familiar, yet instinctively annoying voice answered, "you alright?"

Melise accelerate and turned quickly, facing him head on. It was Tony, his pals awkwardly staring on as they rolled forward towards the two. They must've finally arrived at the hotel.

"Sorry, and..." Melise began, trailing off as she caught sight of a field outside of the windows along the wall behind the twin ramps. The colors were almost invisible behind the huge curtain flowing in front of the panels. On the grass outside colorful floodlights glimmering through hues on the color spectrum. It looked, fascinating.

It was also a great hiding place.

Her eyes turned back to the car in front of her, his face looked star struck as he, and his friends stared at something that must've been by the ramp, perhaps the giant royal purple curtain between them. Melise cruised past the boys, and headed outside the main entrance.

Watching the traffic pass on the road, she headed through the lot, and around to the side of the building, where she saw those capturing lights. It took a cruise through some dark overhangs before luminous solar lamps lit up the scenery. Melise's eyes lit up, it wasn't a field, it was a garden or a park of some kind. She cruised forward, soon finding a cruise-way cutting between the patches of grass changing colors.

Passing each lamp, Melise studied the designs of abstract glass-blown patterns, each different colors- some many colors.

The light was a simple white bulb that faded on and off in unison with the others, giving an illusion of colorful fireflies adorning the darkness of the park.

Reaching the middle of the park, Melise noticed a large structure, appearing to have a roof, it took a moment before she realized it was a gazebo.

"Why didn't they have the venue here," she murmured to herself, catching sight of the purple and pink fading colors of the sun on the horizon from the inside of the gazebo.

Jackson kept his headlights off, they weren't much use besides disturbance of the sanctity of the place. He watched her, from the distance of the cruise-way and the gazebo she found herself inside. Her eyes twinkled as she watched the sunset. When a steady breeze whisped by, she blinked and pursed her lips as some stray leaves passed over her hood.

She looked happy– that genuine happiness some cars were lucky to have. Some cars loved getting wasted, others loved racing, then there was her, she was happy... in a garden? Jackson's eyes became narrow and squinted. 'Peaches' was interesting.

"You know," Jackson said aloud, his expression a small smirk, "I've never had a fan run away from the grand opportunity of meeting me."

Melise turned, startled. Her headlights flash on shining light on Jackson Storm beside the gazebo, watching her.

"Hey," he said simply. Her face relaxed, and she accepted his presence.

"I'm not really much of a fan..." she trailed off, realizing her patronizing words.

"I mean, I just don't follow rac-"

"It's no problem," Jackson replied catching on to her innocent comment. He kept his short comfortable distance from her.

With the uncomfortable silence growing, Melise looked back to the purple glow of the last pieces of sunlight in the distance.

"What was your name again?" He suddenly asked, his eyes trained on her.

"Melise," she answered, smiling gently.

"Huh, right." Storm answered, his face still resonating little emotion past the smirk he had earlier. She looked away, back into the distance.

"The sun looks pretty," Melise said quietly, Jackson raised a lid and glanced up, seeing the night sky and some stars. He turned back down to her, seeing a zoned out look on her front end. "I meant, night!"

Melise began waving her tires in defense. "The sunset! The garden, or park... I mean... I should stop talking." she murmured. Jackson's face showcased a world of amusement and confusion. He smirked when she hung her hood in embarrassment.

"You mean the solar lights? Outdated decorations to market this place?"

"I think they're nice," she replied quietly, sucking in her bottom lip. Jackson gave her a indifferent frown.

"First a fountain, now a garden," the race car's rising voice cut the ambience of the environment, "you know, it's getting weird." The last part of Jackson's sentence coming out in a flat statement.

"What's your purpose here?" He asked.

Melise stared back, her face completely neutral. "I work for the Piston Cup Series, as an oil runner." she answered, thinking through how lame the titled sounded off the tongue. "I don't really get to see these things," she stretched her tire to emphasize the beauty of the garden.

"An oil girl?" Storm replied, squinting and thinking it through. Melise smiled when she saw his emotions coming out.

"An oil handler if you want to give it another name. We carry oil to the pit crews, then the racers use it."

Jackson nodded his hood, understanding, the stern look back on his hood.

"So you're to thank for my oil arriving on time during each pit." his voice sounded like he was surprised she had done it, "hm..".

"Your friend said you were giving away the VIP package to me," Melise giggled, "what was that about?"

"He's a crew member, and you're getting it," Jackson answered simply, "You' got ten minutes up close with a real winner."

He rolled forward, his wheels rolling over the chips of decaying wood onto the gazebo's flooring. Melise reversed slightly, keeping the space between them.

"Right fender, or left?" Storm asked, as she presented him a confused look upon her hood.

"Wha?" She studied him briefly, noticing he was a lot bigger than he looked few feet away. Storm's tires were twice the size of hers, his frame, more sharp and sturdy than she had witnessed on the older racers. His cool expression made him seem more mature and stoic.

"I'd get you a picture, but there's no one else here." Jackson came closer and began scribbling on her left fender.

He admired his work briefly before reversing off the gazebo. His eyes trained on hers as his smile remained in place.

"You're missing your party... again..." Melise said, sounding melancholic.

"I'm heading back there now," Jackson replied, his tone sounding bored with the thought, he didn't dwell further. Melise figured his life was hectic, he must've been tired of screaming fans.

"You shouldn't stay out here alone," the racer said as he began driving back to the hotel on the cruise-way. The blue on his sides less luminous than the solar lights around him. He abruptly turned on his headlights.

"I don't like parties either," Melise murmured, she heard Jackson slow down, and looked up to see his expression seemed surprised. He looked like he had heard something interesting for the first time in his life. His face soon became it's usual cool look after some blinking.

He soon drove off, his engine hums fading away as he seemingly to drove slower. Melise's hood kept a look of surprised confusion, did she say something strange? She thought over the sentence, finding no flaws in her grammar.

This was the second time around, but thankfully, it turned out better than the first time she encountered Mr. Storm. He almost seemed relaxed, but he had to be around other cars often as a professional race car, perhaps it was just him. He seemed real.

Melise decided to hang around the garden once more, why was it always these peaceful places? First the fountains, now a park, perhaps a lagoon was next.

At least she had a souvenir for her grandfather: her left fender.

* * *

 **I know the story seems to be hitting dead ends, I assure you there is a plot set out. It's quite long.**


	13. Chapter 13 : 'Just A Fan'

_**Chapter 13 : 'Just A Fan'**_

"We have to pay for breakfast, are you serious?" Tony said gruffly, as pulled some coins and bills from under his fender and sprawled them across the suite floor.

"They should be giving us free breakfast like the racers and RSN staff get, we work for the series too," his Swift-Wannabe friend answered.

"Well, we aren't Lightning McQueen so... yeah" The red car decked out in 'Lucky 95' stickers said. Tony shot him a glare.

"Yeah, why don't you go get an autograph and picture from your pimp, and get us a complimentary breakfast?" Tony growled, their mutual pal began snickering.

"What's your problem, bro?" the red car decked out in McQueen garb asked, confused.

"What even was that!? The other night?" Tony rolled towards the royal purple curtains, making a U-turn to face his friends. "Storm was talking to her, like she was some VIP fan of his."

"Dude, we saw it, and we don't know a thing about it, so just let it go." the grey car sporting 'Octane Gain' stickers replied.

"It looked like he was going to kiss her fender, If we didn't see the marker in his rim, I would've figured she was some groupie working with us."

"Harsh, bro. But I doubt they even know each other." the red car said, remembering when they saw Jackson Storm follow Melise outside of the hotel to the garden.

"If she had gotten herself a VIP ticket to the venue to see the racers, she could've let us in too." Tony rambled, rolling to the other side of the room.

"You know that's the only reason I got this job? To see famous racers, screw the oil."

"Well, we saw them together, so you can always have the image of Storm and her talking in your cabin, and get pissed each night before bed." the red car replied. Tony shot him an enraged look on his windshield.

"It's no big deal dude, he just signed her fender," the grey car replied, agreeing with his pal's sarcastic statement.

"She got VIP access without even paying! I bet she's eating legendary oysters with that RSN reporter she's always with." Tony said, turning to face them with a look of sheer annoyance across his hood.

"Legendary oysters?" the red car said confused.

"Let's just find a fast food, or breakfast place to eat at," Tony said with a sigh. "Get the other guys across the hall." Tony drove into the bathroom of the three-bedroom suite without another word. His two pals remained unaffected by his annoyance, and headed out of the suite.

* * *

When she opened the darkening curtains in the suite, Melise looked at the glimmering, grey print on her fender for the third time,

'KEEP CALM, AND STAY PEACHY

\- Jackson Storm'

She had to be honest with herself, she didn't think he would write a sentence. It was amusing the first time she read it, but as the immediate humour weighed off her roof, she began to see it for it's creative nature. It wouldn't rub away unless the paint chipped off.

Smiling at the print, Melise relaxed on her axles, and turned away to reach for her phone. Scrolling through the small list of contacts, Melise tapped her tire on Vanda Rūūnes (Mother Dearest).

After a moment of peaceful white noise– the winds blowing the curtain into the vacany of the open space in front of it, Vanda's chipper voice answered.

"Hey! Honey! How's it going?'

Melise smiled at the sound of her mother's soothing tone, "I'm great! It's sunny out, and I got an autograph from-"

"Darrell Cartrip!?" Vanda squealed in wonder, Melise cringed at the sudden change of tone.

"No, I haven't seen him yet!" she answered her mother with a holler of her own. She smiled sheepishly as her mother's crushed grumbling came in.

"Well, I'm glad you're having fun, Melise," Vanda perked up again. "Grandpa's been hoarding Jackson Storm merchandise wherever he sees it. He got himself some glow in the dark blue tires yesterday."

"He really loves Jackson Storm doesn't he? Well there's another race tonight," Melise giggled.

"He'll be sure to tune in, he bought some popcorn for it. We'll try to look for you on T.V"

Vanda replied with a sigh.

Melise glanced at her reflection in the mirror, seeing the bright grey print glittering in the sun light.

"Melise!?" an old croaking voice suddenly called through the phone, "How are you doing, youngling?"

"Grandpa, is that you?" Melise answered, a smile spreading across her front, "I got an autograph from Jackson Storm!"

"Ah, you were always a lucky little Honda, see if you can get a photo with Stormy for me," her grandfather answered, a chuckle resonating in his tone. "Listen, Vanda and I are rooting for you to do well, and Stormy for another win tonight."

Melise smiled brightly, her family wasn't big, but they moved oceans with their support. When things had shifted from melancholy years ago, to the quiet happiness they fell into gradually, she couldn't ask for the two best cars in her life thus far.

"Thank you... thank you, Grandpa," Melise replied. A genuine tone in her soft voice.

As she stared out the window of he suite, the beauty of Nashville glossed the horizon, the Motor Speedway just in the distance with its iconic bowl and sponsored flags. She would have to find a way to convince Jackson to take a picture with her.

* * *

"Keep this up, and the other racers won't stand much of a chance," Quincy stared at the computer in front of the simulator.

"You've reached 208 miles per hour!" Leon said, astounded. Jackson glanced over for a second, his stern game face still on, soon changing to a grin as he focussed on the virtual track.

"New record. New record. Two-hundred-eight miles per hour. New record. New Record. Two-hundred-eight miles per hour," the system announced.

"Well, then. I'm headed to the buffet." Leon grinned. He reversed himself from the computer, headed out of the private room. "Great stuff, Jackson."

Storm focussed diligently on the simulator in front of him. Quincy whistling in the sudden awkward silence between the two. "So... can I finally apologize for acting like an idiot in the trailer?" the pitty asked.

Jackson's grey eyes scanned over him beside the simulator below him for a second, his stern face remaining. "I forgave you a while ago," he answered, turning his eyes back to the virtual speedway.

"Thank the Manufacturer," Quincy said with a sigh, "I figured you and Ray would still be pissed I was having my solo drinking party in your trailer while you slept."

"'Gus' tends to get over things quickly, besides, he doesn't know."

"Even better!" the forklift replied, watching the racer maintain his speed of 208mph with little struggle. He had witnessed racers speed's fluctuate up and down, sometimes by a whole ten digits trying to control their drag.

"So, did 'Peaches' ever accept the deal of a lifetime?" Quincy asked, grinning, still proud of how enthusiastic he was.

"I'm not sure what 'The Deal of A Lifetime' is, but she got her autograph, that's all." Storm answered.

"... She was good looking, I think you got lucky, I've seen some of your fans," the forklift said with a snicker. "Never seen so many cars drip oil for a rookie like you, and most were guys too."

"Are you drunk right now?" Jackson asked after a few seconds. He narrowed his eyes.

"Ha, nah," Quincy replied, laughing. "I'm jus' a little tipsy."

Storm smirked, and shared a laugh with his pitty.

"But in all seriousness, don't trash my trailer this time."

* * *

By the time the afternoon reached, Melise finally opted to leave her suite. There wasn't much she could do without a decent amount of hundred dollars on her, so watching television– specifically the science and technology network– was something different to do through the boredom.

When she was little, Melise always found herself immersed with science, from the dinosaurs to viruses of the immuno-engine system. When this job was all over, she could pursue her dreams for University.

Sometimes, it seemed like a bad idea, because Melise wasn't quite sure of where to narrow down her interests in the vast fields. This job working with the Piston Series was not what she imagined. It was turning into life experience she might not forget. The thought of school hardly crossed her mind when she was watching the racers speed by.

The garage door of the suite rolled up with it's quiet motor, revealing the beauty of the hallway's royal purple aesthetic. The Wheelsworth really loved it's royal, rich colors.

Cruising down the hallway, Melise caught sight of two female cars down the hallway seemingly studying her with interest, then whispering among themselves, taking one last glance.

Melise looked elsewhere, ignoring the strangers. She didn't take a second to think the on looking over, she'd recognized occasional glances as such in high school before.

Heading down the left side ramp, Melise soon reached the main floor, promptly seeing a black SUV approaching her with a snack tray reserved for VIP guests in tow. "Good afternoon, Miss," he greeted with a perfect smile, Melise stared back with an inquisitive smile upon her front.

"May I delight you with a parfait oil smoothie?" the SUV questioned kindly. Melise's eyes lit up with the offer, but confusion masked much of the eagerness.

"I'm not a Very Important Patron here, Sir," she answered kindly, dismissing the tasty offer.

"Don't mind yourself, Miss," he replied, ensuring his stance was as confident as his make and model. "We treat VIP and entourage the same, have a lovely evening."

The truck drove off, tow in line behind him. Melise observed him pass other cars in the room without a glance of his hood. Turning to face the Inn front counter with a perplexed look, Melise met the eyes of the receptionist, an older Camaro in a mauve color with much windshield lid shadow on. She presented a bright smile toward the convertible.

"What may I help you with, Miss?" she asked, taking the time to escort herself around the desk, to face Melise head on. "I hope your suite is comfortable enough, if not, we can find you a deluxe suite free of charge."

Melise blinked a few times, an utterly surprised look upon her hood. "No, I'm fine, just browsing around, if that's okay." she said innocently.

"Not at all a problem, we value our guests here," the Camaro grinned.

Melise nodded her hood, turning to face a few on looking cars, some smiled at her, while others stared in interest. She quickly sped her way out of the hotel, and down the street.

'Why are they staring at me?' she pondered with an uneasy churn in her gas tank.

Melise had never dealt with many onlookers before in her life, something seemed unnatural, out of place perhaps.

Slowing down to obey the speed limit, Melise caught sight of an ice cream shop.

Her eyes lit up with the thought of something sweet. Spending much of the morning snacking on some fruits and crackers, the savory taste of an ice cream cone in the hot Nashville sun was a glorious idea.

Entering the shop, Melise listened to the chiming of the bells attached to the swinging door. A young employee rolled towards the front array of flavours, as the convertible scanned the different selections quietly.

"Hmm, may I have one scoop of your Blueberry Sherbet?" she asked her, glancing up to the signage of price listings on the wall. She smiled to the young girl, then reached under her fender for some change to pay.

The girl smiled brightly when meeting Melise's eyes, and quickly scooping the blue ice cream into a cup. With a quick roll of her tires to the cash till, she studied Melise once more.

"I like the autograph you got," she said with a smile, Melise grinned back, sliding the change across the counter.

'That explains the stares' Melise imagined, feeling better about the random ordeals earlier.

"Aww, thank you, and thank you for the ice cream," Melise replied. reversing away with her frozen yogurt tucked under her tread, driving with three wheels. The employee smiled kindly, giving her a nod of her hood, before accelerating to the back room.

Parking herself at an empty and small booth, Melise had to smile to herself. One autograph and people were treating her like she was a VIP guest. She would have to hid it with some coating later when the race was to begin.

'Strange day,' Melise thought, trying to summarize the events, taking a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth.


	14. Chapter 14 : 'Make Room For A Winner'

**_Chapter 14 : 'Make Room For A Winner'_**

Gale made sure to give Ray the most obvious annoyed face she could muster when he glanced her way. The pick-up truck presented an inquisitive look on his windshield.

"What is it, Gale?" Ray said in a monotone voice, he skimmed through some letters from IGNTR, delivered with some cold canisters of Liquid Adrenaline.

"Do you _live_ , Ray?" she asked, raising her tires in emphasis. "Everyday you're doing something boring," Ray gave her a half-smile, turning back to his notes.

"I'm sure I'll have time to 'hang out' once everything is in order," Ray replied, Gale rolled her eyes, shaking her hood.

"Jackson's not a little boy, he can take care of himself," Gale explained, driving herself around to face Ray head on. Her large frame covering much of the light he needed to read the notes.

"He's been training, conversing with fans, and being sure to be as professional as possible with The Press, what more is there to do?"

"Huh, well it's great he's able to compose himself, but I still need to ensure he's in top shape daily. We don't want our rookie slumping," Ray replied, looking up to her, no longer able to read his notes.

Gale reversed with a scoff, "Man, you are as boring as Jackson says," she grinned at the thought of Jackson calling Ray 'lame' with a totally monotone voice.

"You guys can mope about it, but someone has to maintain order here," Ray said, reading the letters once more.

"Those are 'Thank You' notes aren't they?" Gale asked, knowing the pick-up truck was reading nothing important, based on the fact that it arrived with juice.

"Let's go somewhere for lunch! I know a place that has an aquarium in it!" Gale noticed some interest perk up on Ray's hood, but he continued reading the letters.

"Oh come on, if the word 'aquarium' is more interesting than the papers, then they aren't anything important." She smiled as Ray sighed, defeated.

"Alright, but make sure your phone volume is on max, I don't want to miss an urgent calls from Jackson,"

Gale began cruising her way out of the hotel lounge with Ray following. As the two accelerated on the road, side by side, Ray noted an amused look on the truck's front.

"Now what?" Ray asked as he breathed another sigh.

"Leave your volume on max as we try to enjoy lunch in case Jackson calls," Gale mocked his voice, "You're Father-Of-The-Year aren't you?"

Ray rolled his eyes, squinting and thinking over what Gale said. Sure, Jackson was a rookie like any other he had trained at the academy months ago, but he was different. No matter how many phone calls, mopped floors, and cut simulator time the young racer had been through, he continued to come out strong. Some guys quit right at the start, but Jackson had pushed right through. There was even a time where Ray considered asking him about his goals in life. but even now, as his crew chief, Jackson was difficult to read, sometimes utterly umpredictable. Ray figured he would gradually let the racer come out from under his hood, he would be there to help him every step of the way.

Gale was right, a little too laid back, but right.

"Well, I guess today is my day off until the race," Ray smiled, Gale shot him a grin.

"That's the spirit!" Gale chimed as the wind whipped under her visor, she honked her horn twice, causing Ray to nearly jump from his chassis.

* * *

Arriving promptly at 6PM to the Motor Speedway, Melise followed her memorized protocol, and scanned over each can of oil. Taking her time to apply common sense to each quart she filled, she separated the cans into two groups, with the least being closest to the end side of the Pit Lane, and the heaviest cans filled to the brim, nearest to the array of teams scanning down the lane.

She scanned over her work, and reversed, bumping lightly into another vehicle. She turned slowly as she accelerated forward, meeting the grey eyes of Jackson Storm.

The commotion surrounding her didn't seem to stop as the rookie's presence was clear.

"Hello, again," she smiled, feeling her engine becoming clogged. He gave her a half-smile glancing to her fender, seeing no grey print. Turning his attention back to her windshield.

"We meet again, huh?" Storm said, "I was passing through, and you reversed into me."

"I know, I'm sorry about that," Melise said, biting her bottom lip and shutting her eyes.

"Holy Chrysler on golden asphalt! It's Jackson Storm!" a young male oil runner in red called. Melise took her eyes off the race car, and focussed on her oil cans. Jackson rolled forward to greet his screeching fan.

"Where do you want the signature? Your fender, rim, hood? I won't sign anywhere else." Jackson said to 'Lucky 95' as he approached awestruck.

"The hood," he replied in a trance-like stare as Storm began quickly signing his hood. "Man, I'll never wash my hood again..." Jackson watched him roll away with an immensely bored look on his windshield.

Melise caught sight of the autograph as she watched the two from the corner of her windshield. It read 'J. Storm' simply. No fancy quotes, no compliments, not even his full name.

"Good luck tonight," Melise said. Jackson turned to her, his eyes presenting a bored look molding into a half-smile. "You should tell the old bros that one," he began driving off, stopping abuptly beside her– looking her up and down once, "Next time, look where you're reversing." His words came out with a geniune tone. She was certain if it had been anyone else, Liquid Adrenaline, or some oil would be dosed all over them.

His engine revved as he cruised away, photographers snapping some pictures behind her. She turned to face them, and they scattered quickly, chasing after Storm, some hanging around to photograph Melise, she covered her front with her tires, as they began driving off, finding no more interest in her. A confused look spread across her front as she watched them leave.

"Welcome vehicles from our top Sky Zone rows, to our Mid-Lane rows and our fan favourite, Wind Zone the front row parking to all the action!" The enthusiastic announcer beamed, "I'm your host Darrell Cartrip, here at the Motor Speedway of the South, with my pal here, Bob Cutlass."

Melise watched as the racers circled the first turn, driving at a moderate speed. Several race cars, were absent from the track, replaced by some new cars, burly next to the number of remaining array veteran racers. Jackson lined himself up to his pole position of second place, Lightning McQueen in first place, the two looking confidently down the track as they headed around the second turn, approaching the checkered line. The two appeared to be having a conversation, Jackson was grinning, while McQueen seemed stumped as to how to reply.

When the green flag came out, an audible raised voice of Jackson Storm came from the track,

"Good luck out there, Champ, you're gonna need it!" The racers headed around the second turn as cheers and revving engines filled the stadium.

Melise began transferring her oil to the assigned pit crews on her manifest.

As the hundred-fiftith lap approached, Melise took another glance to the track, noticing Jackson had a huge lead on the three racers on his tail. She glanced to the jumbotron, seeing a confident and concentrated Jackson Storm on the track in front of him. Among the chaos of flashing lights, large track glares from the mega spotlights above, and screaming fans, Melise's squinting of the world around her became a stare of big brown eyes on the concentrated race car's shot on the big screen. He appeared down-to-earth with his calm, stern, determined expression. Jackson's eyes briefly making glances to the space beside him as he changed his line on the array of open space around his leading position.

"Go McQueen!" the chanting of 'Mr. Lucky 95' was always iconic in its shrieking nature. He was idling nearby with a big grin on his grille. Melise wasn't sure how she did it, but his hollering and screams did little to phase her, most cars around cringed in annoyance as he bounced on his shocks, waiting for his idol to pass the second turn, promptly preparing to shout again.

Melise headed around him, oil cans in tow.

By the time the final lap arrived, the loud roaring of engines giving their all echoed the stadium with even louder fans. Jackson glanced behind himself on the turn leading to the checkered flag, seeing no racers immediately on his tail, he sped past the finish line with little effort. Fireworks soon raining on the skies ad Darrell Cartrip hollered like mad-man in his press booth.

"And another win on the shelf for rookie sensation, Jackson Storm!" Bob Cutlass said over the commotion of his pal.

Melise smiled brightly, making her way nearby Victory Lane behind camera cars. She didn't see Jackson on the podium, and found herself a spot beside a tent for extra shocks repairs if needed on the track. She looked on, beside the safety of the tent as Storm rolled around the semi-circle opening of the space, ignoring the cameras. He focussed his grey eyes on Melise, while he rolled up the podium, catching sight of her unique coloring and big brown eyes among the flashing, giving her a half-smile as she beamed with a joyful look behind the camera crews. She reversed her way back to her station.

Jackson smiled for the cameras from the podium, waving his tire some, and glancing to see Chick Hicks coming from behind the Winner's Circle with a grin across his grille.

"I'm sure racking up another win against McQueen feels great, huh, Stormy-boy? Another easy win over 'ol Ka-Chow, or should I say Kaboose, 'cause he's always in the back!"

"Nah, no, no, no, Chick, McQueen is the elder champion of the sport," Jackson turned to face the cameras with a smirk on his front.

"Takes everything I've got to beat him."

The array of cars lining up to listen began cheering and chanting. Chick Hicks immediately began giving his thanks to them, Jackson on looking with an amused expression, as he rolled off the ramp, cameras flashing on his black paint, luminating it as a grey color.

As the racers made his way back to Gale, he was met with the realization that another gala was upcoming. His axles were heated up, and his shocks were minimally stiff, the parties could wait. Storm just wanted a car wash.

Meeting the proud smile of Ray beside Gale's haul, Jackson reversed his way into his intricate trailer, closing the hatch before any camera cars could invade his sanctuary.

"I think you'll be sleeping peacefully tonight," Gale's voice came in on the intercom.

"Great job, Jackson," Ray called in.

"Thanks guys," he replied, relaxing on his axles. "I'll head to the showers, you guys can celebrate without me."

"Well, we're going to play some Scrabble, because Quincy and Leon are convinced they can beat me," Gale giggled.

Jackson raised a lid, "Scrabble?"

"Yeah, you know, a physical game outside of virtual reality, with letters?" Quincy mocked outside the trailer. "I bet I could beat you too–"

"Count me out," Jackson said, he yawned through the speakers. "I've gotta rest."

"Well, let's a get rollin'!" Gale smiled at a dumbfounded Quincy.

* * *

When Jackson slumped into a deep sleep across the large VIP suite– a single pillow, under his tire–Quincy placed down his letters connecting to Gale's 'P' of 'P-E-N-I-C-I-L-L-I-N'

"E-A-C-H-E-S," Quincy spelled it out, keeping his tone low. He glanced to see Storm still sound asleep.

"Peaches?" Gale whispered, "Is that the best you can do?"

"I said 'protractor' you dolt," Leon sighed.

"Look, there's something you guys gotta know," Quincy glanced back to the sleeping race car, seeing him undisturbed.

"There are some pictures of Storm, and this girl he spoke to at the venue a few days ago, online."

Gale's front became inquisitive, "What kind of pictures?" she whispered.

"Just random photos of the two, alone in the Wheelsworth Garden," Quincy replied. Leon presented a confused look.

"Weren't you _with_ Jackson there?" he asked, Gale exchanged a glance with him and nodded in agreement, turning back to Quincy.

"Yeah, and he was looking at _her_ , asked to see her. I went over, and she chickened out on the 'Deal of A Lifetime'. Storm went after her, and I stayed behind."

"So now there's photos and talk about the two? What's her name?" Gale asked.

"Listen, don't tell Ray, a thing, he'll get an engine block. I don't know her name, he just called her by her paint color, 'Peaches'."

Leon glanced back to the Scrabble board, piecing together his fellow pitty's story.

"Jackson doesn't know, I doubt 'Peaches' knows, but now there's rumors spreading."

"They think she's his girlfriend, or something like that. They'll hound the both of them the next time they're together," Quincy took a glance to Jackson, still asleep.

"If you see a peach-y convertible and Jackson Storm in the same room, keep 'em apart."

* * *

I know the Heartland Speedway was the canon location for the events that have transpired in this chapter, but I figured I would mix it up a bit. The Motor Speedway of the South is well known in the universe. so I wanted to have it play a vital role in the story.

Hope you are wearing a seatbelt, there are many bumps on the road.


	15. Chapter 15: New Experiences

_**Author's note: This is going to sound strange, but I never pictured Melise as a person. She was a character I pulled up mostly building on some of my interests (Hondas being everywhere in North America, convertibles being a rare vehicle to see around the town I live in, and always seeking adventures), but quirky in her own sense. I prefer not to usually re-imagine cars characters as people because it (to me anyway) removes the unique aspect of them being vehicles from the picture. As odd as it sounds, I can't really picture any of the characters as people, just talking cars with unique models and sizes.**_

 _ **On another note, Melise is not my real name, nor is Rūūnes (pronounced Ruh-OON-es). I was bored months ago, and made a list of my favourite names, and Melise was soon added.**_

 _ **I sketched a random photo of Storm sleeping from the last chapter, and I thought I would share iit with you all but I'm not sure how**_

 ** _And once again, thank you for all the reviews._**

* * *

 _ **Chapter 15: New Experiences**_

Sharp sun rays in the early morning were something most cars couldn't stand. Sunlight reflecting off the windshield created a glare that was a universal cause of concern on the freeways and streets alike. Ray had himself parked in the Wheelsworth Inn's lounge, as orange beams of sunlight streamed through the curtains surrounding the vacant room.

The pick-up truck used his time of peace to run over Jackson's status before and after races. Each crew chief was handed paperwork regarding any concerns The Piston Cup Series noted of racers. Naturally, Ray assumed IGNTR would be keen to send Storm a physical trainer to keep him up to par, but the race car insisted that it was a waste of time when he had his simulators. Ray could still recall Jackson's reaction to the idea proposed by his crew chief months ago.

 _'You're racing abilities are flawless, Storm, but we should start getting your tires dirty, not just asphalt and computers. Physical training'_

 _'Are you telling me the track, wind tunnels, treadmills and your crap riddles isn't enough physical training, Gus?' Jackson replied disparagingly, as he raised a lid._

 _Ray had let out a deep sigh, 'Expecting promising results from simple drills isn't an automatic win towards the Piston Cup series.'_

 _'Look, you told me to be the best Jackson Storm I can be, I do the drills daily, I make it out on top daily. I'm not a quitter, the Piston Cup is practically waiting for me.' the young racer spun his tire off the floor, raising it up to let the wheel rotate in the air like a yo-yo._

Ray didn't think it was likely in the beginning, but Jackson was right, he was physically prepared for the racing world already. With the drills, the simulators and the track all practiced under his hood, Storm's transition into the racing world was fruitless. Through the long hours of drills, he had attuned and increased his learned winning formula. Ray was proud of him every step of the way.

The slow approaching sound of rolling tires on the floor pulled Ray from his day-dream, and he met the friendly glance of a silver Prius towing a series of envelopes, papers and some other items towards him.

"Reverham? Good morning, nice to meet you Sir," he said, as Ray gave him a nod of his hood.

"We cannot hold onto this overflowing bin any longer for Mister Storm," he gestured the tow behind him with the point of his tire. "Here is his souvenir and bulk fan mailer bin." He released the tow, allowing the metal tug fall to the floor.

"Fan mail? Huh, I'll get it to him, thank you." Ray replied, noting how many papers were in the crate. The silver car nodded, and drove out of the sun lit lounge.

Ray tossed his paperwork into his trunk, and Jackson's goody bag. He left the lounge, driving through the hall leading to the main lobby, and outside. It was refreshing to navigate without fans and cameras blocking the way, and it was an even more beautiful dawn sunrise.

When Ray caught sight of a gazebo surrounding a small park at the side of the hotel, he glanced through the grove of trees to see some trailers quarantined off from local traffic inside a roofed lot. Gale was nearby chatting with another truck colored in purple and orange, the Octane Gain semi.

"...What are the odds of finding that one car speeding on the freeway at night? One hundred percent." the purple truck said, his voice gruff and monotone. Gale nodded her hood in agreement.

"You'd know it hauling out in the busy highways of the west," she said, "racing on a track is one thing, roads are another." She briefly studied his purple coat as Ray approached.

"You know, you'd look good in black," she smiled, as he chuckled, both trucks turning to greet Reverham.

"Mornin' Chief," the male truck said, briefly exchanging a friendly glance with Ray, then Gale, before reversing into the space of the shaded lot to give the two privacy.

"Up early, as usual," Gale smiled, she took a quick once over of Ray's haul before giving him an inquisitive look.

"Jackson's fan mail basket," Ray said, answering her stare. "I had no idea the hotel was allowing mail in."

"That's a lot of mail," Gale said, studying the load. She could see some hubcaps and tires buried among the letters. The sudden immediate thought of the events from last night clicked as she saw the mass of random letters. If the rumors about 'Storm's girl' were true, then there was no doubt some of those letters– hopefully none, had something to say about it.

"I'll be leaving it in his trailer, Gale," Ray said, waving his tire in front of the trance-like state her windshield displayed. She snapped from her day dream back to reality.

"Uh, sure, I'll make sure he gets it, let me open it up for you," she stuttered, making a U-turn into the VIP lot, Ray on her tail.

'Crap, crap. oh crap' Gale's eyes darted towards Jackson's trailer, thoughts racing through her roof as she hoped for the best. "Here," she opened the ramp with the input of a password only she, and Jackson knew. Ray reversed inside, unhooking himself from the load, and allowing it to sit in the corner of the dimmed trailer. Once out of its interior, Ray noted Gale's faraway look.

"Gale? Is everything alright?"

Her eyes darted down to see a concerned look on Ray's front. She relaxed on her axles voluntarily, trying to minimize her tension.

"I'm fine Ray, just a little... hyped today."

His face didn't change, "The last thing I need is for you to jump off the road and tumble into a ditch. Try to relax."

"I'll be fine, Ray," she said, breathing a sigh.

"Alright, take care." he headed out of the parking lot, back towards the Wheelsworth's main entrance. Gale breathed another sigh as the Octane Gain semi pulled up beside her,

"How do you think you'd look in purple?" he asked.

Gale glanced at him, and breathed a sigh.

* * *

"What kind of name is 'Grid'?" the red car decked out in his lucky 95 stickers asked. The grey car dressed like his idol, Bobby Swift turned to face him, an incredulous look on his windshield.

"It's better than some boring common name like yours, Preston, never changing it," he said, smirking. "Grid Swift. Imagine that."

"Sounds like you're married to him-"

"Shut up!" Grid shouted to the red car, quickly lowering his voice in the quiet atmosphere of the hotel's minimally full lounge room. He glanced towards the washroom as Tony came out, headed towards them.

"Looking at youself in the mirror before you go see Melise, huh?" Grid snickered. Tony gave the two of them an incredulous look.

"She's a weirdo, not a Dinoco girl," Tony replied, "but I figured, I should say sorry for bugging her when we were leaving Copper Canyon."

The two began following Tony from the lounge to the hallway connecting to the main lobby. "Sorry for making a joke?" Grid asked, chuckling.

"Yeah, she overreacted, but she's still team you know," Tony said as Grid and Preston exchanged amused glances with each other.

"Yeah, sure," Grid smiled, "That's totally the reason why." Tony shot him an annoyed look.

"She's not my type bro."

"Never said she was. She's not _your_ type, but... " Grid trailed off, laughing, as Tony shook his hood smiling.

"Guys look, lets just squash it, alright?" Preston said, attempting to be the new voice of reason, "As far as I see it, I know _nothing_ , and so do you unless you want your mufflers on fire."

"Okay, okay," Tony said, the grin on his front still alive, "where is she?"

"Probably in her room," Grid said, stretching his axles as the three reached the hotel's elegant lobby.

"To her room then," Tony said, leading the way up the ramp, Grid and Preston followed as other cars watched what must've been Lightning McQueen and Bobby Swift's biggest fans tagging along behind Tony. The glow of their decals and rims occasionally reflecting off chandeliers and rear-view mirrors.

When the trio reached the the floor Piston Cup staff shared, Tony idled in the hallway, looking upon rooms elegantly accented with purple curtains flowing through the ceiling, and down each archway to create a fancy and elaborate cruise way for passing vehicles.

"What's up?" Preston asked, as Tony squinted his eyes at each room number.

"I don't even know what room she's in," he answered.

"She's an oil runner too, so maybe beside ours?" Grid replied, sarcasm dripping off his tone. Tony rolled his eyes, accelerating to the room next door to 302, room 304. Listening briefly to hear if there was movement inside the suite.

"Knock, knock?" Grid suddenly gave the door two firm raps, as Tony shot him an annoyed look.

"There's somebody coming!" Preston said, listening to the sound of tires rolling towards the door. He began reversing.

"Later, bro," Grid said, accelerating away with Preston nervously on his tail. "You're welcome!"

"Hey! Aren't we doing this damn apology togeth–" Tony stopped his whining as he met the stare of their female collegue in front of the opened door.

Melise's eyes soon widened as she saw who was in front of her.

"Hey," Tony said, watching her eyes calm down to a soft glare that made her appear more adorable than menancing. "Look, that wasn't me banging on the door, it was Grid."

"Grid?" Melise repeated, her voice calm and inquiring. "I don't remember your names."

"Yeah, he's the guy in the grey with Swift stickers," Tony replied, keeping his voice confident, briefly glancing at her autographed fender.

She glanced down the hallway to see her two fan boy co-workers smile then wave their tires at her. Grid's hood sporting a smile that seemed reasonably annoying to Melise.

"What would you like?" Melise asked, her voice sounding genuine, her expression blank.

"We– I just wanted to say sorry," Tony said, catching his words as he heard Grid snickering down the hall. "I can come off as a dickhood sometimes, and... yeah, sorry about that."

Melise's eyes became docile and warm, she seemed to search Tony before she presented a smile, "I appreciate that you're sorry... But I don't understand why you were that way at all."

Tony cringed slightly. He couldn't tell by the tone of her soft voice that she was still stand off-ish to him.

"I know I must've overreacted, harmless prank I'm sure." Melise replied, seeing Tony's loss for an explanation.. He began to relax on his axles.

"Well, thanks– but it's mostly Grid's fault," Tony chuckled as Grid's mirrors perked up, shooting him a glare, "He acts up sometimes, around girls." Melise gave Grid an awkward half smile. "And nice autograph, I wish I got an autograph from Storm."

She glanced to her fender before sucking her bottom lip in, looking to the ground, then back up to Tony.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Tony," Melise said, her voice sounding somewhat flat to his hearing. "But some may say a better apology would be to do your job so I don't have to."

Tony's cabin felt like it had been dosed with cold coolant. His two pals down the hall's eyes widdened in confusion. Melise's tone was so soft with her comment wiping the floor, that it didn't sound much like an insult at all, rather a request.

"Uh, okay... yeah," Tony began putting words together. Melise's blank expression became a concerned look.

"I don't mean to come off harshly, but I really do mean it," she said, "we are a team after all."

Tony and the others' expression cooled down as she explained her thoughts.

"Well," Grid began, approaching the two, "glad you're not holding a grudge... So are you from here?" his question came out suddenly.

"No, I'm not from here. I came from a small town." Melise replied, as Tony gave her a smile while she exchanged glances with the two cars in front of her.

"Cool," Grid replied quickly, "So we're going to the track later, wanna come?"

Melise's front immediately contoured a confused expression. "The track?"

"Yeah," Grid continued, "the Speedway of the South, you know, where we are?"

"I know, but I mean, why are you going there?"

"To race." The three answered in sync, quickly glancing to each other in surprise.

"Umm, I don't know," Melise replied, "perhaps I will."

"Bummer, but have a good rest of the day," Preston replied, flashing his lightning bolt sticker mimicking Lightning McQueen's authentic one. Melise squinted her eyes in the glare.

"'Kay, well that's all," Tony said reversing. "See ya, later."

"Wait," Melise suddenly said, Tony turned quickly to face her, while Grid and Preston soon followed.

"Is it just me, or is everyone behaving strangely?" her front looked worried and confused.

Grid raised a lid, "In what way?"

"The staring and–" Melise sighed, feeling stupid about what she was rambling on about. "Uhm, nevermind, it's nothing."

Grid's expression remained blank while Tony squinted in deep, chosen thought, Preston glanced between Melise and the others.

"Well, uh, see you later," Tony said awkwardly, turning to continue his cruise away as his pals followed.

The three began heading off as she watched them cruise down the hall, obviously discussing how their talk went down, before closing her room door with a slight frown.

She had never stood up to someone before, and the adrenaline was coursing through her circuits as she was nearly wobbling on her shocks.

Melise wasn't sure if it was the right thing to be so blunt about it, but she hadn't ever given anyone a reason to taunt her the way Tony and Grid did.

She rolled towards her window, staring at the bright Motor downtown under the sunshine. Besides resolving any conflict with her co-workers, something else didn't seem right, the random and quiet attention she was receiving seemed odd, as if a Jackson Storm signed fender was the most important piece of artwork in 2017. Melise would laugh about it, had she not used some of the extra polish her mother gave her to cover up the autograph– if she wasn't still receiving stares with its presence now hidden.

Leaving her suite was an expeience Melise was itching to do, but the onlooking made her uncomfortable. Thank goodness for room service.

* * *

Ray had to be honest with himself, he didn't like getting the calls from IGNTR about parties and events for Jackson to attend. More or less, it was convincing him to go to these gatherings and stay for some time that was the toughest another win in his corner, IGNTR was sure to make the call sooner or later.

 _'Gale said I need to relax,'_ Ray thought, shaking his hood. _'With the amount of attention Storm is getting each day, good luck.'_

The pick-up truck breathed a sigh in his single suite, glancing to see a 12 pack of IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline with four extra Lightyear tires in the corner of the room. The day had gone by quickly, and it was nightfall already.

There wasn't much else to do when Jackson wasn't racing. Naturally he spent most of his time on the simulator, attempting to beat his previous record. IGNTR seemed proud enough to have a talented rookie marketing them, then sent Jackson juice as gifts weekly with 'proud to be serving us' letters. As much as Jackson was glad to be where he was now, he didn't seem to brag as much as he once did, it was almost as if he didn't give two tailpipes about the attention.

The juice was another story. Jackson seemed to be prideful of his sponsor, treating the essence of IGNTR like it was a Piston Cup. He'd tell them to phone him up whenever they wanted a commercial to film, and often gave packs to his lesser known pit crew. Ray thought the display was quite interesting, knowing Jackson's sociability with other cars wasn't top notch.

Ray took a quick tug of the plastic sealing the cans of Liquid Adrenaline, and pulled the plastic wrapping the straw inside the product free. He wouldn't tell the other crew, but he was curious of the flavour of this energy fuel.

When the liquid touched his taste buds, Ray spat out the straw instantly, as an icy cold surged though his gas tank, with a bitterly sweet flavour escaping the carbonation. It wasn't a bad experience, but it sure did fit it's name.

He pushed the can back to the corner with the rest, and headed out of his suite to the hotel training facility, no more juice, and Jackson should have been back in his suite by now with a call from him confirming it.

When Ray entered the high-tech building, much of the facility was dark and empty, minus the computerized glow of a single simulator running smoothly with Jackson steadily picking up speed.

Ray took little time entering the comfort of the racer's space, hoping not to startle him. As the truck's tires rolled across the flooring, the hums of Jackson's engine reverbed quietly in the room.

"How long have you been here?" Ray asked, seeing Storm not losing a second of focus.

"Don't know, is it dark outside?" Jackson asked, not taking his eyes from the virtual track.

"It's nearly ten PM," Ray announced, Jackson's lid raised up.

"Then it's been a while, I've been training since it was bright outside." he said simply.

An email message suddenly popped up on the simulator's screen, causing the training module to pause, and Jackson's tires to lock in place. He let out a grunt as the machine's pressure pinned his wheels.

"It's another party," Jackson said, reading the first few lines silently: _'COURTESY OF THE MOTOR SPEEDWAY AND STAFF ALIKE AT THE WHEELSWORTH INN, WE CORDIALLY INVITE MISTER JACKSON STORM TO ATTEND OUR CHAMPION'S GATHERING TONIGHT'_

"You already know the expectations," Ray said, watching Jackson roll off the simulator.

"And before I forget, there's letters from your fans in the trailer, too." Ray noticed Jackson's interest perk up as he mentioned the fan mail.

"So fan mail, or an overrated party?" Storm weighed the two option with little decision.

"I'll take my mail any day," he answered, "those cars at the party can mope about something else while I'm praising my fans from the comfort of my trailer. Good night, Ray."

Storm cruised out of the facility as Ray looked on blank expressioned. Ray was going to breath his infamous, lengthy sigh that Jackson seemed to love when the two first met, but was suddenly interrupted by the chiming of his personal cell phone. He didn't waste a second answering the call with a firm 'hello'.

"Hello there, Reverham, I'm Porter, with IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline; nice to meet you."

"Good day to you, Sir," Ray replied, already knowing why they were calling.

"Well, the Wheelsworth has informed us that there is another venue tonight, and we hope to see Jackson Storm attend."

"He's been training before and since the race in Motor City–"

"This time, we ask that he attend for the full two and a half hours, and socialize with all guests."

Ray couldn't help but become annoyed by the blatant request. Jackson had worked hard to get where he was, and if he wanted to spend a night reading his fan mail with an oilshake, he should.

"Listen Porter, Storm is exhausted, and he's headed to his room for R&R. Give him at least one break, because as his crew chief, I'm giving him a break." Ray hung up the call with a good-bye, and a thump of his tire on the red phone icon. He turned to see the paused simulator.

Without further idling, Ray powered off the machine with the press of a key on the adjacent computer recording Jackson's stats, and headed out of the facility.

* * *

Jackson found his trailer to be a comfier sitting than the exsquisite VIP suite he was given. It was cool, but not as laid back as his dimmed down trailer, housing his tunes free to blast whenever he liked.

Unlike those days, Jackson was relaxed in the confined space as he spilled some of the loot of fan mail across the floor in front of him. Envelopes, some with sketches of IGNTR's symbol and others, blank folded sheets turned into makeshift parcels to arrive to him. He couldn't understand why cars even sent letters in physical form, when they could just send him pictures on social media, why not advance?

"To Jackson Storm," he read aloud, "wonder who that legend could be?" he shredded the envelope open, and unfolded the paper with his tires.

 _'Dear Stormy_

 _You're so fast, like Lightning McQueen. I watched you win the Dinoco 400 at Copper Canyon speedway in my state, and it was crazy awesome. Maybe when you were young I bet you dreamed to be fast like Lightning is. One day I'll be as fast as you and him, and I'll win a Piston Cup._

 _from: Ralphie'_

Jackson stared at the amount of times Lightning McQueen was mentioned, and wondered if his mail got mixed up with the veteran's.

 _'Cool letter nonetheless_.' he thought, placing it to the side. Jackson's eyes caught the attention of a saucer-like object in the loot on the floor. He used his tire to hold down the object, and the other dragged against the floor to pull the wrapping off.

A spinning silver rim, shimmering under the dim lights. Jackson's expression became a surprised state of interest. He slid the rim over to the pile with his opened letter, noting there were three more identical packages waiting.

Jackson grabbed his tire on a random letter stapled into a makeshift envelope, and neatly pulled it apart, unfolding the paper to lay flat.

It was a sketch of a car decked out in the racing number 2.0, a mile ahead of the rest of the cars on a track. Jackson noted McQueen was nowhere in the picture, and enjoyed it for its creativity, laughing at the way his wheels were drawn in proportion to his giant cartoon frame.

He teared open another envelope, and unfolded the intricately detailed paper underneath, and read the writing in the corner of the picture of him, taken from the grandstands.

 _'There's a Storm Rolling By'_

The look on his face as he zoomed past the checkered flag seemed surreal being merely a week ago. A look of determination as McQueen and his pals were awestruck behind him. His face was stern and void of any excitement, but Jackson remembered the glorious feeling of winning on his first try.

Studying the high definition photo, there was a clear view of 'Peaches', or Melise as she was named, with a look of excited awe in the distance, her flushed cheeks were even visible from afar, as she had cheered him on. Those big brown doe eyes chasing him down the track. One of those other oil cars, the one in red, beside her, mouth gaped open in wonder as others seemed surprised and confused.

Storm's mind trailed off, wondering where she was. Knowing how weird she was, Melise was probably watering flowers outside the Wheelsworth Inn. Jackson wasn't sure why, but she was so different, and weird– bu at the same time, talking to her felt defeating. She never seemed to back away from adventures, and she was going to explain herself each roll of the way. It confused him, but intrigued him at the same time.

The racer extended down his ramp, and rolled out of his trailer, soft revs humming from his engine as he yawned, glancing around the dark lot. Outside, the breeze ruffled through the leaves, and accompanied the sound of engines echoing in the distance with some hooting. He turned to the direction of the noise, seeing the Motor Speedway several blocks ahead. Storm didn't waste much of a second accelerating at a moderate speed towards the track, an anticipated expression once more on his front.

Tony yipped and hollered as he sped past Preston for a third time, watching an annoyed frown appear on his hood. "Gotcha again, dawg!" he laughed doing doughnuts. With a peer of his eye, Tony glanced up to the grandstands, seeing the peach convertible watching ever so often with some interest in their amateur Piston Cup race, and shot Melise a smirk as he sped back to the checkered flag line.

"See if you can ge your RPM ready this time, bro. I bet with some practice Storm could be as fast as me," he teased Preston, as the red car lined up beside him, a determined look on his front.

"Ready, set," Grid raised a makeshift green cloth, and shouted, "Go!" from the in-field. Laughing as Preston began hollering as the two sped down the track, teeth baring in the workout.

"I'm as fast as– no! I'm faster than McQueen!" Preston hollered as his 95 flag attached to his left tail end fender danced in the winds.

A sudden rumbling was felt beneath the treads, as Grid continued laughing, nearly missing the speeding car zoom past him with an echo of the confidence soaring through his engine.

"Screw you, I'm faster than Jackson Stor-"

Tony nearly rolled over on his side as the race car sped rigorously past him, blowing the 95 flag from Preston's frame to dance in the air, before falling to the ground. The loud roars of the IGNTR racer's engine filled the empty arena, as Tony and Preston began exchanging glances, lips quivering in sudden fright.

The noise was menancing, and Melise's eyes widened as she watched the race car zoom past Preston and Tony a high speed, it almost seemed like they were hardly moving. Storm's engine rumbled like a crash of thunder beside their ordinary cylinders.

Grid's face became a pale shade of fright, and it seemed like an instant click when he looked at Tony, who had began slowing down in awestruck fright at the sudden scare. Before Jackson could pass them on a second lap, the three male cars had bolted out of the stadium, not turning a headlight back.

After his second lap, Jackson slowed down, his expression a mix of confusion and a smirk. "Hey, where'd the other racers go?" he laughed, glancing around the track, and soon hearing the quiet hums of Melise approaching the fenced off grandstands behind him.

His smirk didn't leave his front end as he acknowledged her, "Oh hey, Peach, long time no see."

"That wasn't very kind," she smiled, turning her eyes to look at the exit the boys had cowered through once more, before she looked back to Storm, his smile still gleaming from headlight to headlight.

"Why are you up there? Afraid of a little competition?" He asked, raising a lid.

Melise began driving along the infamous 'Wind Zone' beside the fence as Jackson followed from the track, keeping his cool expression as he waited for her response.

"I'm not very fast, so I watched instead," Melise replied, watching Jackson present her a confused look.

"Neither were they," he said simply, "good thing they don't have chanting fans or they'd be disappointed."

"They were _having fun_ ," Melise giggled, "and you scared them."

"All but one," Jackson said, giving her a smile, as her eyes stared back in content. He closed his eyes suddenly, and reversed to face the in field.

"Ever raced before? Once?" he asked, not turning to face her. Melise's front became her blank, usual, innocent expression once again.

"During track and field in elementary school, I never won anything except participation ribbons."

He scoffed, and she began giggling, his front became confused before he could make another smart comeback. Jackson was almost certain she was either completely unphased by his comments, or she was mocking him, either one brought about some sparks of ignition in his engine, and cloudiness in all his thoughts.

"Why don't you come down here, and we'll see how fast you can race against me?" Jackson raised a lid, and Melise seemed unwilling, looking to the ground and back while thinking it over, as he briefly glanced over to gauge her interest.

"Race you?"

"Race me."

Melise idled for a moment longer, before reversing from the fence, and headed around the stadium's corridors, long and wide to easily accomodate a single car passing through vacant trails of traffic under the floodlights. Storm passed by, rolling slowly through one of the archways, he braked and glanced to see her approaching him at track level.

She always looked so lost with that doe front end, and those wandering glossy eyes. But everytime she opened her mouth, she was always certain of her place in the world. He caught a glimpse of his autograph on her fender, it had reappeared. Jackson watched her cruise at a low speed ahead of him after she smiled in her greeting.

"That speed will get you first place for sure," he remarked, seeing her mirrors perk up to his smirk behind her. She began accelerating to a speed around 70mph as Storm sped up after her. Catching up to her taillights with ease.

"There's nothing to crash into, Peach," Jackson said, noticing her trembling as she sped faster than usual. She turned to face him, a heavily blushed hood of embarassment as Storm chuckled at her sheepishness.

"No need to be a weirdo, just take it easy."

"Did you get over this that quickly?" Melise murmured, gasping as she rolled over some track marbles. Jackson's shot her an immediate blank expression, that quickly became a controlled look of confusion.

He was stumped, suddenly out of words. Melise stared back, perplextion on her on windshield. She took the cue of the moment, and sped as fast as she could down the track, squealing and swinging as she tried to straighten her line, soon reaching a speed just past 100mph, as Jackson looked on staring blankly with widened eyes as Melise came around the corner, her tires squealing ever so often as she tried to maintain her speed miserably along with her line. Jackson realized too late that Melise had closed her eyes in terror as she began spinning, and slowing down. Her right fender bumped against into his own as she let out a short yelp, the weight of his fame halting her spins.

"I'm sorry," she reversed quickly, feeling a burning sensation by her right light. She began glancing to see no dents on Storm, as he looked between her right headlight and her eyes with his usual cool demeanor. "You cracked your headlight." he stated, as she flickered her lights on and off a few times, seeing no difference besides a slight sting when she opened her jaw.

"But I did it," Melise said, cringing her mouth as she spoke, "I raced." Jackson's front showcased a look of practical amazement.

"You spun out, nearly wrecked yourself, and you're still all cheer-y?" He asked, watching her smile through her obvious pain, there was always something new with 'Peaches' around.

"It was terrifying, and my cheek hurts," Melise murmured, "But I did it."

Jackson raised a lid, scaning her over once.

"I crossed the finish line before Jackson Storm." his front became an amused expression within seconds, as he glanced at her crusing alongside him.

"If this were a real race, you'd be smoked out, and stuck in a ditch in the in field," he stated, matter of fact. He turned to see her smiling through the pain.

"But I still beat you," she giggled with her mouth pursed closed. and squeezed her eyes shut as the stinging increased. Jackson stared back, awestruck for a moment.

"Yeah, right." he replied in a flat tone.

"Mm-hm,"

"I don't lose,"

"You just did," she whispered.

"I don't think so, Peaches."

"I do, Jackson."

The mention of his first name alone as if he was a casual car on the road, sounded geniune coming from her mouth, as if she didn't realize the champion racer in front of her. Jackson couldn't understand how some one could be so calm and collected around him, being used to only his pit crew remaining sane when he was in the room. Melise was another story, she practically treated him like he was a random car she was glad to know. It felt, different and good.

"You should get that checked out," he said suddenly, glacing to her broken light. Melise felt the stinging increasing with each second, she slowed down as a sharp surged of pain spread across the edge of her mouth.

"there's some fluid," Storm began, as Melise wiped the oil trickling down her lip with her tire. she gasped behind pursed lips as her cheek began to visibly swell.

"Come on," Jackson suddenly said, Melise looked to him, seeing his casual face contoured to a look of concern. "There's bandages in a box in my trailer."

Melise seemed hesitant at first, but soon regained her traction as Jackson looked over her wound once again, and cringed slightly. It hurt more than it looked, and she was lucky he didn't have her hood on a platter.


	16. Chapter 16: This Storm, Yours

**Chapter 16: This Storm, Yours**

She hardly left a scratch, it was like being hit with a pillow- well, almost. Had her light not cracked like an egg, maybe he could laugh about it, but seeing her wince in pain was tough to look at.

Jackson glanced behind, seeing the Honda rolling slowly, a few meters distance, behind him. She had her upper lip curled over the swelling corner of her mouth, her eyes squinted closed, and opening ever so often to watch where she was going.

The trailer was just where he left it, and Jackson wasted no time inputting his password, allowing the hatch to roll down slowly. Melise soon pulled up, keeping a moderate distance from the high-tech moving van, beginning to feel guilty of the events leading up to her headlight's demise. She winced ever so often as her right fender moved with her jaw, despite the damage being seemingly minimal.

Melise watched Jackson glance suspiciously about the parking lot, then breath a sigh, relaxing on his axles.

"I think you should go inside," he said, his cool eyes turning to face her surprised expression.

"What? Inside your trailer?" she inquired, her voice sounding vaguely like she was speaking with her mouth full. Jackson stared back, bored, as Melise began rambling.

"I refuse," she squeaked, "I can't do that, I... it's, not right—it belongs to you... I won't invade your sanctuary—" Melise's speech was halted by a shock of pain from her damaged fender. She hung her hood down as she covered her mouth with her treads, squealing into them as quietly as she could. Jackson raised a lid, an annoyed face plastered on his front. He was glad she was done talking, but he wasn't happy with the answer.

"Jeez, remind me not to wreck myself," he said in a flat tone. The racer began heading inside his trailer, looking amongst the empty space, his fanmail stashed back in the far corner. He knew Gale stored a first aid box in its quarters, but he never cared to know where it was. A whimpering was heard behind him, and Storm, reversed out of his trailer, an incredulous look upon his hood. Melise stared back, flushed cheeks and remorseful.

"Be quiet," he whispered, agitated, as she nodded rapidly, embarrassed with her display. He revved back into the trailer, and Melise listened as he rummaged through what she assumed was cabinets. Her eyes blinked a few times, before she slumped her hood down, a frown grazing her front as she stared to the ground, ignoring the coppery taste in her mouth.

The very idea of coming down to the track was now creeping in as regret. Sure, she had taken up Tony's offer, hoping to grow a sort of friendship, but it ended miserably. She could barely converse with them, feeling alone as the only girl, and being the quiet car she was. To make matters worse, now she had broken her headlight, and Jackson Storm's reaction to the injury was more of contempt than sympathy.

Melise didn't understand him, he seemed calm and collected, but at the same time, he looked unsatisfied with his surroundings, as if he was the only car on Earth. One minute, he was talking to her, albeit, with relative distance, the next, he wanted her several thousand lanes away with duct tape over her mouth.

When Jackson reversed out of his trailer, he glanced back to Melise as he turned. She had her eyes adverted away, staring down to the ground, her peach paint on her hood- a shade of rose- as her lips lay together crooked, her bottom lip swollen at the corner closest the the headlight, and quivering.

"Hey," he said flatly, waving a tired in her face, she backed away as her eyes followed the movement for a second, startled.

Jackson peered at the injury, and squinted in thought. It looked like it hurt, as the crack was right to the edge of the light, causing the peach fibreglass to redden near it. He gritted his teeth, she had caused the injury herself by driving like some bumper car.

He pulled the gauze out of the stitched roll, holding it under the weight of his tire, and rolling it out with the other. Jackson could tell Melise was desperately trying not to squirm as he began tossing the gauze around her right fender, using her axle as the bandage support.

Melise glanced to the racer, and watched the face she once saw on the jumbotron— concentrated and stern— focussed on wrapping up her silly injury, instead of leading a pack of fierce race cars at 200mph.

"How do you... umm..." Melise's eyes adverted back and forth from Jackson, closely to her, concentrating on his task, and back to the ground.

"How do you do it?" she murmured, as his grey eyes glanced to her windshield, listening to her quiet voice, "...go so fast, I meant."

Storm didn't answer, turning his eyes away, and studying the gauze slowly burying her light.

"You seem sure... of yourself," Melise pinched her eyelids shut, jittering briefly. "Was it ever hard to beat other racers?"

"Where am I, an interview!?" he stated boldly, his voice rising, looking in her startled eyes.

Melise reversed a few inches, glancing to the wrapped headlight before looking elsewhere in melancholy. Jackson didn't seem phased by her dismay, worse yet, annoyed further by it. His grey eyes were narrow as he tossed the remaining gauze into the kit, throwing it back inside the trailer with a small crash. She cringed at the sound, keeping her eyes away.

"Well, I've always been alone," Melise murmured, trying to ease the tension. She tried to speak through the muffled feel of her mouth, and the clog of shame in her system.

"My mother and sometimes my grandfather, are the only family I have around now," her voice fell in and out of tone, as she tried to ignore the pulsing of her wound, keeping her eyes to the ground.

"And being alone, being quiet, you don't have much— if at all, friends, or someone to talk to about silly, or amusing things..." Melise trailed off, bringing her eyes slightly up, seeing Storm facing her, his expression looked... different, as if she had said something meaningful, it surprised her.

The racer's mouth formed a small arch as he stared back to a silent Melise. He seemed to be calculating and searching her with narrow grey eyes as the convertible turned her attention elsewhere in shyness. She didn't bother thinking over what she said, if Jackson was annoyed with it, he would let her know right away.

Melise winced and pressed her eyes closed. She began blinking several times to see Jackson's cool grey eyes scanning over her swelled lip and the fenders on each side. She quickly covered her mouth in her treads, taking a few once overs in the reflection of the shimmering trailer to see, vaguely, that her mouth wasn't damaged or leaking fluid. She kept her tires locked over her jaw, embarrassment heating her engine, and warming a rosy tone on her hood. She cringed behind her tires at the sudden pressure she had put on her mouth.

"Weird, as usual," he muttered watching her timid nature crash in, as his tone fell flat and calm again. Melise felt her gas tank sink as Jackson seemed to look at her incredulously with his sentence.

"I don't understand... wh—"

"Hey! Storm! It is him out here!" the engines of several cars wielding digital cameras enveloped the IGNTR trailer in a matter of seconds. Jackson nearly reversed into four of them as he turned in immediate surprise to the voice of the vehicle, frustration quickly coating the racer's hood as he was soon surrounded. It didn't take more than a few seconds for the horde to engulf a startled Melise, closing her eyes and hiding behind her tires.

"We thought maybe, it was your crew chief," a car next to Jackson stated in the commotion, "but no! It's the Jackson Storm! Carbon fibre and all!" Jackson hardly acknowledged the 'ring-leader', as he squinted in the mess of photographers invading his privacy.

"Storm! Is it true!?" a voice shouted, "Is it true this young woman is your, quote ' _Sweetheart Wagon_?" Jackson's expression became a look of pure bewilderment.

"WHAT!?" the race car glanced to Melise, the center of attention to several other paparazzi as she cowered against the back wheels of the trailer in confusion and shock at the sudden change of atmosphere. Jackson stared at her, teeth baring at the news, and now enraged.

"How do you think you will fare against the newer next-generation racers in next weeks race, Storm!?-"

"Can we get a shot of your side!?"

Jackson wasted little time revving his engine loudly, watching the crowd back away in sudden astonishment. A sudden crack resonated from Melise's direction, and the convertible rammed between two camera cars, an audible squeal above the noise as she slipped on her treads to the asphalt with a drag of her undercarriage. The bandage came loose, and her headlight— shattered in her fender— rained pieces of glass to the ground. Behind her, a larger car with his reverse lights on. His mirrors caught sight of the convertible laying in a mess, and didn't take a second to accelerate towards her, camera in tow, the others snapping more shots in eager pride.

Three loud honks of a semi-truck's horn caused the vehicles to scatter around, hollering questions and statements to Jackson as the racer glaced to see Gale approaching, a look of surprise and annoyance on her usual cheerful hood. Four security staff from the hotel sped past her, shoving vehicles away from the racer.

"Disassemble, get moving!" the large SUV shouted, Gale looked amass the chaos, focussing her attention on a young convertible, straightening up herself as she wobbled to balance on her tires. A security car quickly grasped her left axle, pulling her away from the scene, and tossing her towards Gale.

"Whoa! Whoa! Hey! Watch it, Sir!" the semi caught her under her tire, watching her eyes widen as she stared up to Gale, eyes full of tears, and her right fender, dented in with a damaged headlight and swelling. It was 'Peaches', her soft features, Quincy's description, she was with Jackson— it all pointed to the peach convertible in front of her.

Gale took a glance at Jackson, brushing off a paparazzi asking for a shot of him and the girl in front of her, a few meters away while the shouting, and constant flashes died down. Security formed a car-made barrier in the space between the three outside of the trailer, and the eager crowd surrounding.

"Hey..." Gale looked over the young car hovering her hood down and hiding behind her wheels like a terrified little tractor. "What's your name?" she asked, her voice gentle, hoping to assure her.

Gale smiled as the girl took a breath, and balanced herself. She removed her tires from her mouth, "M-Melise." she answered. Gale returned a smile, hearing her loud and clear over the noise. Melise turned to see Jackson approaching the pair as security began forcefully rolling the spectators away, his grey eyes tweaked with annoyance as they set on her.

"IF YOU LISTENED! IF YOU DID WHAT I SAID, THIS WOULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED!" his voice was the loudest she had ever heard, the loudest anyone had ever aimed at her. Gale's front became a look of astonishment and uneasiness as she watched the exchange.

"If you just went into the freaking trailer," Jackson's teeth gritted as he glared at Melise, startled and staring in horror, "and if you could drive straight like a _normal_ _car_!"

Melise's voice was nowhere. She stared back, every word hitting her, causing her fender and hood to sting, tears welding up in her windshield.

"Go find a doctor to fix your damages," he continued as his tone calmed down, and his eyes remained narrowed, "you're beginning to look like a garbage truck, just get out of here."

Jackson glanced her over once, an incredulous look permanent on his hood as he turned to Gale, "get her out of her before she gets blood on my trailer with her busted bonnet and light."

Before she could answer, Gale noticed Melise slowly rolling away, her expression in total oblivion as she picked up speed and cowered her way through the parting camera cars, suddenly riled up at her exit. The convertible sped off towards the hotel as security hollered for them to make room.

Gale found it odd, she had no clue what had occurred beforehand. She watched Jackson's expression begin to turn blank and void of any sympathy as he closed his lids. His stern face returned as he reversed into his trailer, closing it immediately, and keeping his eyes down as it folded up, leaving her unacknowledged.

By now, much of the spectators had their fix, the cars dispersed. The last of the crowd, wandering aimlessly back to the main lot, a few following the girl into the hotel as security chased them.

Gale idled, remembering the look on Melise's front, her terror, the way her hood fell in guilt as Jackson scolded her. She was out of place, in the wrong place. She had to have been no older than Storm himself, and naive of the highway in the fast-paced Piston Cup life.

The lot was quiet, tire skid marks surrounding the asphalt around the trailer. Gale kept herself closeby, she slumped against the trailer in fatigue. She had a feeling Ray and Jackson's next meeting was going to be different.

* * *

Her tires didn't seem quick enough as she sped past on-looking cars in the Wheelsworth lobby. Keeping her hood down, and tear-streaked eyes away from contact with anyone. It didn't take long for Melise to reach her suite, she slowed down as the door came into view, her axles feeling stiff as the adrenaline depleated in her engine.

"Miss! Wait!"

She could hear tires behind her, and she took a weary glance over her mirror to see two cars, cameras in rim, approaching.

"Miss! Are you and Storm together? Are you a fan with a lucky spell on the racer!?"

She stared back, her eyes glossy with tears. The other photographer began adjusting his camera for a shot of her.

"I don't know what you mean." Melise answered, her voice hoarse and nearly a whisper. She reversed into her suite as the sharp hollering of a security jeep chasing the two away, jolted her shocks and damaged metal.

When the door was closed, the pain came. Her cheek stung, her eyes stung, worse of all, her heart stung. Melise let the tears flow down her fenders, dampening the carpeted floor.

Her mind was numb, as she balanced herself, staring reluctantly at her reflection in the mirror.

She noticed her rims and chassis first, covered in kicked up asphalt and dust, the paint around the small edges were measly chipped up patches of peach, a few scratches coated her sides, nothing she could deem too frightening, had she ever experienced them before. Her right side, the headlight, pushed further into its normal place than any headlight should be, causing the corner of her hood to bend up slightly. The glass surrounding the light was cracked completely as the metal of her fender at it's edge leaked a small mixture of oil and blood. She bared her teeth, confirming her suspicions, seeing the rows of dentine along her right side covered in red, mixing with her saliva to give a disgusting flavour. In contrast her left side, 'Stay Peachy' perfectly preserved in grey marker.

Melise didn't bother looking at the horrid car staring back at her any longer, her big brown eyes were reddening on her windshield, and the tears and pain made her more and more tired.

She turned off the room light, slumping flat on her chassis in the dark. The bright light of the hallway under the door burning her weary eyes, Melise buried her hood in her tires, hearing some voices return to chatter quietly outside her room. She sniffled, her cab shaking in her soft cries. Her overheated body warmed up the bed, creating a warm, safe, sanctuary as she drifted away.

 _'I wish I didn't go down to the track...that I never spoke to him._

 _...I wish I never got in the way...'_


	17. Chapter 17: Another Route

_**Chapter 17: Another Route**_

The bed was comfier than ever before, its warmth was safe, soothing, and breath-taking, like being buried in a duvet during a frigid winter night. Melise was awake, but she didn't want to leave it.

There was a heaviness in her cab, her axles felt stiff and asleep, her eyes were puffed, and her throat felt raw as she laid on her chassis under the covers.

When Melise stood on her tires, her weight was heavy, and she slumped to the bathroom, ignoring her reflection in the mirror as she rolled into the shower.

The water was its usual warm temperature she liked. The heat allowed fluid to breathe through her engine, and Melise soon felt her right fender beginning to pulse sharply.

She inhaled sharply, thinking over the events last night.

' _Why does it have to be me?_ ' Melise pondered, closing her eyes, and massaging her cheek with her tire. ' _What's happening?'_

For the life her, she couldn't understand why so much attention was aimed at her. She wasn't the race car rookie beating legendary racers, she wasn't an RSN reporter with a reputation, she wasn't even a Dinoco girl- why her? And Storm's girlfriend? She hardly knew him... the press made up some uncanny stuff.

All odds aside, Melise couldn't fathom the events leading up to last night. When she felt nervous on the track, and Storm encouraged her, when she skid, and slammed into him, when he took the time to help her. He was always distant, even the first time she met him. His eyes seemed to stare right through her when she passed his suite. A genuine smile spread across her fender, easing the air. Every pessimistic statement he had, she kindly rebuffed, and he was always perplexed. Seemingly, Jackson Storm was a force to be reckoned with, and she had unknowingly walked right into the hurricane. But the storm wasn't terrifying. It wasn't gravity-defying, it was swift, eager, and interesting. Like a dark supercell system moving in, leaving a nervous banter upon view, and a heavy downpour with gale winds. But the storm was unlike most, it evoked a wonder, an amazement with a tinge of fright. It's path was unexpected, it's power was unmeasured, confusing yet, it's meaning was unlike any other. It was a rogue system, on its own.

Melise reached blindly till she felt her tire graze her toothbrush, and she opened her lids to fill the bristles with paste, brushing away diligently.

 _'He thought it was me... he thinks I said those things about... us, doesn't he?_ '

The attention she had been hiding from for days, the on looking stares- it all made sense now, mostly.

Thinking about it caused her roof to feel sore. Her mouth and fender began pulsing as she rolled out of the warmth, and into the bedroom.

The place felt hollow, the royal purple drapes made the room appear lifeless as the cloudy Motor City outside reflected no sunlight.

Everything was out of place, Melise couldn't think straight. Glancing about the room, she caught her reflection in the mirror, seeing the peach fibreglass red and angry around her headlight, the entire area noticeably still swollen. She had never felt such misery in years.

Melise headed towards the door, she would have to get herself checked out. She began resting her tire against the door. She couldn't do it, she couldn't leave her room without being hoarded, it was inevitable. She idled for a moment, frustration vibrating in her axles.

"Melise!?"

Melise jerked into reverse, nearly crashing into the window, a transparent look of fear on her hood. She recognized that feminine voice.

"Melise?" Shannon called on, concern in her voice. "It's just me, I want to help."

Shannon knew.

Melise felt a cold rush through her system, and she slumped, rolling towards the door, opening it up to see the brown sparkling car's worried face, form into a gentle smile.

"It's alright," Shannon said, closing the door behind her. "We can't turn back time, but we're going to get you some help. There's a clinic nearby."

Melise should've felt relief, but the thought of leaving was terrifying. She couldn't muster to cause more animosity with her presence.

Shannon noticed Melise hanging her hood in shame. The corner of it, reddened and housing some dents. Her right headlight completely shattered, and ruptured inside of her fender. The look of guilt on her front said a lot about who Shannon grew to know the girl as. She was sorry, she was mistaken and was far from any groupies she had witnessed in the same boat. Many would sue, others would defame racers for money, blackmail and guilt trip... Melise was broken, saddened, and confused.

"I promise, you'll be safe." Shannon reassured her, seeing a glimmer of hope in her brown doe eyes.

"... Okay..." Melise murmured, her eyes looking for Shannon to lead the way. Soon reversing from the suite into the lifeless hallway, Shannon watched Melise look both ways, keeping herself timidly low as they both cruised to the lobby.

Melise began to calm down, noticing very little hotel patrons around. She had been relentlessly uncomfortable, forgetting to check the time. She had no idea what hour it was as she glanced about the empty elegant main floor. Despite her new found peace, the pain in her fender wasn't letting up, to make matters worse, the bright lights of each chandelier stung her puffy eyes, causing her to keep them shut.

"May we assist you," a professional voice asked calmly. Melise turned and squinted her lids open to see the maroon receptionist, the old woman's eyes basting with sympathy. "I can call a moving van for you?"

"No thanks," Shannon answered, her expression a smile and grateful. "It's nearby, and we need to go now." She took a quick once over Melise, and headed towards the door with her tire in grasp.

Noticing the black pick-up truck at the door, entering the hotel seemingly oblivious to the pair, Shannon sped past, recognizing the crew chief as the bold 2.0 decorated his doors.

Ray merged quickly, giving the two women space as they headed past. His eyes catching sight of the peach convertible Jackson had inquired about several days ago, the girl who had cheered from the pit road. He couldn't help but take a second glance, her side was battered, as if she crashed into a brick wall. Ray noticed Mrs. Spoke's eagerness to keep the girl discreet as if she were some sort of VIP guest. He kept his composure, minding his own business.

'Hope she's alright.' he pondered eyeing her, a feeling of suspicion coated his grille— an unsettling feeling, watching the two leave the lot through the tinted windows. Ray minded his own, turning his attention away, and ignoring the discomfort.

As per usual, last minute maintenance was a routine, and he needed to focus on getting prepared for the afternoon departure. First, speaking with Piston Series officials about Storm's tallies, and scores on his record-breaking stats board, then they'd have crunch the factors together for the press to make sense of his winnings. The pick-up truck headed to his suite, his trunk full of paperwork and forms.

* * *

"Everyone's like, 'I saw her fall down— did you see the way he yelled at her!?'" Grid mocked a feminine voice as he pretended to be the random unison of vehicles who spoke of the news between Jackson and Melise last night.

"They act like they're doing the world a favor by being freaking annoying with their cameras." Preston rolled his eyes, a frown soon spreading across his grille. He rolled about the suite, thinking over the events, and soon parked himself beside Grid. The young grey car was eagerly scrolling with glee on his laptop as their three other new found pals— the quiet trio of oil runners, looked on interest plastered on their hoods at the screen.

"Yeah, yeah, like you think you're some saint, bro." Grid glanced up from the screen, giving Preston a sly grin. "You know they help us."

"I dunno, I don't feel all that great knowing we left her alone." Preston said.

Grid rolled his eyes, "and I didn't feel like losing to Jackson Storm," he turned to the car beside him, "guy's as fast as a freaking rocket, sounds like one too." the silver Maxima shot Grid a perplexed look.

"You met Jackson Storm last night?" he asked, exchanging glances with Preston and Grid.

"Ye—"

"No. Not really, nah." Preston spoke over Grid, "he basically kicked us off the track when he sped by." Grid glared at Preston, annoyance circuiting through his system as his hope to have attention was crushed by reality.

"Tyke, don't bother asking anymore questions about Storm, Preston acts like he wasn't pissing his tank when he sped past us outta nowhere." Grid huffed, as Preston kept a look of boredom over his windshield.

"Whatever, dude." Preston muttered, soon glancing to see Tony entering the room.

"I could've beat Jackson Storm, he just... surprised us, that's all." Tony remarked, his tone sounding confident. His streak ended swiftly as the boys began laughing. Tony shook his hood, knowing that he shouldn't have said his thoughts aloud.

"So... what is this stuff, Yarv'?" Tyke asked, turning his attention back to the laptop screen, the young teal Elantra to his side turned the laptop from Grid to face him.

"What's this about nine-hundred dollars?" he read the fine printed email showcasing the amount as the subject. Tony sped to his side, looming over the laptop in interest as he heard the large amount mentioned.

"We hit the jackpot, bro," Tyke's pal, a dark green Yaris, replied.

"They told me they would go in if it meant extra pictures," He shot the others a grin, "so Kessler asked them what the hell we would get, they sent three hundred dollars more."

"So they finally believe that we are the masters at knowing when and where Melise is. Took 'em long enough to figure it out, we freaking work with her." Grid admonished, a look of astonishment on his hood.

"They're so desperate, man," Kessler said, a smile spreading across his grille. "They forked out three hundred dollars for one tip on her and Storm's location."

"That's good stuff on me," Tony replied, glancing among the group, "More cash-ins for us."

"Yeah, last night, one of them said he was sure Storm was gonna bring her inside his trailer—"

"Hot DAMN!" Grid whooped, Yarvis, Kessler and Tyke laughing at the thought of the ordeal.

"Well, we got our pay, so screw that," Tony remarked, an incredulous look on his hood as he changed the subject.

Preston stretched on his axles, "Yeah, so anyway, whats nine hundred dollars divided by the six of us?"

* * *

Like most, he had heard about the news this morning. A verbal altercation in the lot with Jackson Storm, and— to his surprise, his own employee, Melise. At first, it was a shock, he'd never imagined a hard-working girl with her demeanor would be the center of attention for cameras, but after learning the two had been seen together prior, he put two and two together— they were spending time with one another. Nothing different from what groupie girls did, he just didn't expect it from Melise. Getting he news of her in the clinic was another story all together he didn't understand.

The clinic was a usual quiet atmosphere as the white pick-up truck rolled in. Leaving the small examination room lead out by a nurse car was Melise and Shannon Spokes accompanying her, a large fresh bandage around her right fender, and some patches of gauze down her right side. He frowned.

Melise's doe brown eyes turned to him, her peach paint seemed faded and lifeless as she gave her supervisor a gentle smile free of swelling.

"Hi, Sir," she murmured, as he approached her. Shannon gave the man a nod of her hood and a smile.

"You're alright, Melise?" he asked, glancing her over once as the convertible nodded.

"Yes, I'm okay," she answered, rolling forward, away from the examination room.

"That's good, I wouldn't want to see you in trouble," he remarked, easing into his statement. When the nurse approached him, he turned to her, eager to hear the analysis.

"Hello, you're her supervisor?" she asked, stretching out her tire to the clipboard in front of her.

"Yes, will she be alright for the rest of the season?" he asked, Melise exchanged discreet glances between the two, her expression blank.

"Yes, she'll be fine, however, the headlight caused some internal damage to her mouth— nothing severe, some bruising and grazing." She took a glance to Melise's bandaged fender, "the light itself had to be removed, and the area must heal before a headlight replace it."

The supervisor frowned. It was against the law to drive without headlights, especially at night— let alone doing work without both of them.

"Healing can take between 3 to 6 months," the nurse added.

He thought for a moment, weighing out his options before dismissing her, "Thank you, Ma'am."

Melise watched the nurse leave, her hood hanging down in fatigue and weakness from the medicine and heavy bandaging.

The convertible's eyes met the supervisor's frowning glance, "What happened?"

Melise returned a frown, "I was being foolish." She twiddled her tire into the clinic carpet, "I was around— talking to Jackson Storm, when I should've stayed away." Her voice was like a soft piano as she told a sad tale.

"He... hit you?" the Supervisor's eyes narrowed as the words came from his mouth.

"What...? No, no he didn't." Melise's eyes widened to the sudden question.

The supervisor cooled down, listening.

"There was a large group of camera cars, and I fell in the commotion. He was trying to help me... but I should've left him alone..." Melise pursed her lips, and looked away, not wanting to discuss last night further.

He nodded his hood, believing the young convertible. There was little reason for her to lie, she was his best employee.

"Well, Melise, you see... with a damaged fender, I can't expect you to do your job properly."

Shannon bit her bottom lip, hearing the statement, knowing where it was going.

Melise closed her eyes, sighing as she opened them, "I know, Sir, but I wanted to ask... what are we doing today?"

"We'll be packing up to head out to Los Angeles later on."

She glanced to the ground, thinking over the events last night, her heartstrings suddenly tugging as she realized where things stood. There was no way she could avoid attention working with the Piston Series. They would have little regard swarming her, leeching off of her naive stance in the fast pace world. She would deter the focus of racers and crew alike, and Jackson— he was upset, she disrupted his focus, she would never see him again... but at least she got to meet him.

She inhaled sharply, meeting Shannon's worried eyes, and her supervisor's concerned glance.

"Melise, if you're okay with it, you can stay in my trailer if you'd like to stick around. I can provide you with a bodyguard and privacy as you sit out." Shannon said, a small smile across her lips.

"Things were weird days ago, when all I had was my uniform," Melise said, her supervisor and Shannon listening.

"It was like I was receiving attention for no reason... as if cars assumed I was a VIP guest, but I think I've figured out why."

"What is it?" the pick-up truck asked, an inquired look on his grille.

"They thought Mister Storm and I were together, a couple. That's why, this is why," She grazed the bandage with her tire, "I should've left him alone. He was upset, rightfully so, and I am a distraction."

Shannon opened her mouth to protest Melise's words, but looking the convertible in her eyes, she saw sincerity. A frown spread across her features and she slumped on her axles.

"Sir, I'm resigning from my position as an oil runner, I have no other choice," Melise turned to Shannon, "I'm so sorry."

"Well... I'm hopeful you'll get better, I'll have your dismissal contract to sign at the Wheelsworth Inn, then we can arrange a flight for you home." he said, narrowing his eyes in thought.

Melise began cruising from the clinic in somber, ready to obtain her belongings. Shannon forced a smile to the girl's boss, and rolled after her.

 _'Another great employee gone to shame.'_ he thought.

* * *

"Two-hundred nine, miles per hour." the simulator chimed, Jackson smiled at the infamous voice. He accelerated down the virtual track, watching the red and white stripes along the infield curb zip along an illusion of a solid red line. If only the other guys were this fast, then they could know what being a winner felt like.

The door to the private room encased away from the other simulators opened, and Storm kept his focus on the screen, ignoring the little engines of his pitties.

"So..." Quincy began, "you've been here since like 2 AM, gotta sleep eventually."

"Nah, I'm fine here." Jackson replied, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Quincy exchanged a glance with Leon, "Look, Ray won't like it if you're too tired to talk to fans as we depart."

"They've got nothing interesting to say," Jackson said, rolling off the simulator, his grey eyes glacing to the two. He caught them giving each other the 'knowing' glance.

"That's not what we heard," Leon stated, Storm shot him an annoyed look.

"Listen, I don't care about it, drop it." he began heading for the exit, avoiding further talk about last night.

His trailer was in view, outside of it, Ray was talking to a staff member of the hotel, Gale loomed nearby, her expression in unsual discomfort.

Jackson ignored the trio as he headed past, towards the keypad on its side. Ray glanced to the rookie, his windshield soon becoming an expression of rage. He rolled towards the racer, a cool expression on his grey eyes as he acknowledged his angry crew chief.

"I have to hear from everyone, but you about the ordeal outside your trailer last night!?"

"Good afternoon to you too," Jackson said, a monotone voice causing the pick-up truck to stare back in bewilderment.

"You know, I saw her, the same girl from the Pit Lane leaving the hotel all damaged this morning— hanging out with girls when you should be focussed on racing!"

"She's gone, that's all that matters! I don't need that convertible around me!" Storm shouted back. His eyes did a once over the crew chief. "You know what Ray, yeah, you were right she's just a distraction, you get your praise, happy!?"

"She got hurt!"

"She doesn't know how to drive straight, that's why she was damaged!"

Ray blew out a frustrated sigh, Jackson was pushing his buttons. He didn't realize how bad this could be if the press focussed on the news about him and her.

"Look, calm down." Ray said, watching the racer's eyes relax after a few seconds, "we don't want IGNTR kicking you from the podium, if you mean it— you'll stay away from her, then good. We have something to work with."

"You know what, I'm not really in the mood for this, tell Gale to take me to an empty waterfront or something." he reversed into the trailer, watching the same hotel staff member previously chatting with an angry Ray, approaching the opened hatch.

"Mister Storm, sorry to intrude," he said, a posh voice articulating his words to a degree that Ray could see Jackson was hardly listening.

"We have increased our security, you will not have to worry about an pesky girls disturbing you."

Jackson raised a lid, breathing a scoff and closing the hatch.

"Send my stuff via airplane, bye." Storm's voice said through the intercom, Ray glanced to Gale, peeking around the trailer, she gave Ray a nervous smile.

"Take him... somewhere where he can cool down, think rationally for once."

"I heard that." the racer's voice came in, his tone flat.

"Good," Ray said, his tone equally matched. He gestured with his tire to Gale to get hooked up. She nodded once, an amused smile on her hood as she listened to the exchange between the two.

Jackson glanced about his earned surrounding, he felt the weight of the trailer against his breaks, as Gale exited the lot.

Ray was right, he needed to stay focussed, but wining was easy. McQueen couldn't do much with his old engine, the other guys were nothing special, Jackson had it down to formula.

He didn't like how fond of the idea he was, but Melise was a distraction, she was like a lost girl in a shopping mall. He'd be lying to himself if he said she should be gone forever, maybe behind the scenes, behind the cameras and crowd, where she belonged. The way her eyes lit up when she watched him cross the finish line was exhilarating, it sent a shock of coolant through his engine as she smiled from the sidelines. It wasn't the same feeling he got from screaming fans, but from someone who seemed to believe in him against all odds. It didn't help that she had those big brown eyes, on her windshield with the soft features of her rosy hood. He hadn't seen any car that looked so gentle, and cringing to admit it— cute.

The trailer gradually slowed down, hatch opening to reveal the sound of crashing waves on the Motor City waterfront.

Jackson stared on, the beach in Los Angeles was always crowded. He never went there, it was colder, loud and the sun reflecting off mirror's was annoying.

It was quiet here, no honking kids, no reflecting sun rays, no cars, just him.

Gale idled with a opened magazine in the distance beside some large rocks in the sand, giving him his desired space.

Jackson found himself ready to think, ready to realize. he cruised down the ramp, thinking over the reality setting in before him. He should apologize to Melise. Sure, she was clumsy, but she didn't mean for things to go downhill they way they did, her eyes always struck this purity. If she was some groupie, she would've invited herself into his life without regard for his privacy. He'd heard Ray's sob stories about girls jumping in and out of racing athletes lives.

Jackson needed to win, that was a no-brainer, she could stay out of his way until he asked for her presence. She was a distraction nonetheless. He didn't need that negativity around him, messing up his line.

Gale glanced up from her magazine, seeing the rookie kicking away some sand with his treads. The sun began peeking through parting clouds, reflecting a glint of light off his roof. She saw Jackson briefly glance to her, turning back to the waves in front of him. Gale wasted little time approaching the race car.

"Hey, Storm, what do you say we chat a little?"


	18. Chapter 18: Don't Bore Me

_**Chapter 18: Don't Bore Me**_

" _Chat_? About what?"

"Well," Gale's voice went up an octave as she watched the waves, "you looked kinda lost, trucks are used to seeing that look."

Jackson gave her a perplexed look, Gale returned a smiled.

"And, you looked really lost since we got here," she continued, emphasizing the meaning behind her choice of words.

"It happens," he answered, tone flat as he glanced back to the sea.

"Is this making you feel better?" she asked, seeing his grey eyes scanning the water for nothing in particular.

He didn't answer. Gale noticed he was looking for words.

"She's a distraction, but... "

Gale pursed her lips, squinting her eyes as the breeze caught its way under her visor.

"I've gotta focus, someone has to beat McQueen." Storm said, his eyes not turning back to her.

Gale glanced around aimlessly, her smile soon reappearing as Jackson's patience began wearing thin.

"Alright, alright, look, I want to apologize to her, happy?" his sarcasm falling flat as Gale laughed.

"I'm surprised, I guess Ray was right."

Jackson stared as his hauler giggled in a fit beside him. Gale was like a mind reader in disguise sometimes.

"Yeah, he was, and all that yada yada."

"Come on, do you ever just laugh a little in life?" Gale mused, watching his blank face staring back at her."What happened yesterday was a mishap and a gruelling one at that, but we don't have to shun ourselves forever."

Jackson stared back to the sea.

"It's great that you want to apologize to her, but stop beating yourself up over something you couldn't prevent. We didn't know she was going to hurt herself."

Storm cringed, remembering how much pain Melise was in. Her whines were an annoyance, he could remember it. Being unable to stop her pain, as she mumbled questions to him.

His thoughts transfixed on one thing he remembered her say, that she was always lonely, that it was hard to make friends. Jackson was no weirdo, but he knew that feeling all too well. When Melise announced it, she seemed to glow like a light at the end of a long tunnel. He found himself awestruck for a moment with her, everything got all annoyingly warm and fuzzy.

"When you're ready, we can head back to the hotel, and you can go look for her."

Jackson closed his eyes, breathing in harshly.

"Yeah, whatever you say."

* * *

Tony roamed the hallway, keeping his distance from Melise's suite only a few doors down. He had seen the supervisor enter, and he could hear bags zipping up. Initially, he had planned to ask Melise if she'd like to go somewhere, but it looked like that chance was slimmer now than ever before.

There was some chatter, and he couldn't make out the words. The curiosity was deafening, he rolled up to the door, listening to his boss talking to her inside.

"...Sign here, and on the last form, right here with today's date."

'Forms?' Tony was confused, he wouldn't have did it if the Grid and Kessler weren't peering out of the room down the hall, but a sudden knock on the door escaped his tires.

The supervisor was on the other end when it opened, he had an inquired look on his grille, "Tony, it's good that you came."

Tony took a glance behind to see Melise, she turned her eyes briefly to see him, that innocent and cute look on her expressionless front. The length of her left side was visible as she filled out a form in front of her, the damage to her body didn't seem to look that bad.

His boss closed the door, giving the girl her privacy. "Melise is going to be leaving soon, I'm expecting you and the others to pick up the pace, I won't be hiring another to take her place."

Tony stared back, in confusion "Leaving? Like to go home?"

"Yes, private circumstances that have caused strife."

He knew exactly what those circumstances were, her and Jackson Storm. Why did it matter to keep it private? Most cars at the hotel knew, Storm was a growing icon here. But Melise, she was leaving, as in, she was leaving for good...

Crap.

If she left... no more spinning rims, no more cash-ins. Tony took a quick glace down the hall, Kessler and Grid, both nowhere to be found. They must've left when they saw the supervisor come out.

"Oh," Tony replied, his thoughts cloudy, his engine feeling clogged.

Her suite door cracked open, and Melise met the barren eyes of Tony, she gave him a weak smile on her tired looking front. "Everything is signed, Sir." her soft voice resonated. Tony could feel the guilt creeping in like cold coolant. Melise looked sickly, like she had dealt with the stress of hundreds of broken shocks on off-road terrain. Her peach metal appeared dull and faded with the exception of Storm's autograph on her left unbandaged fender. Her eyes were still vibrant, but void of that happiness he once saw.

Jeez, the flashy stuff still felt great, but seeing her made his new sterling silver rims feel a tinge less authentic.

"I guess this is good-bye, Tony... I hope you can make working with the Piston Series worthwhile." her voice was quiet and nearly a murmur.

"Uh, yeah..." Tony began reversing, Melise glanced down, noticing his shiny spinning silver rims, his eyes widened, but she appeared indifferent as her eyes came back up, she looked him over once, a frown on her lips as she closed the door.

"You can take about fifteen more minutes," the supervisor said to her through the door, watching Tony crusing away, picking up speed as he headed back to his room. He didn't seem to be taking the news lightly.

Melise felt her engine sink, 'fifteen minutes', she repeated in her mind. Only a few weeks ago she was in awe of the experience working for the Piston Cup series, she had walked into a new world, filled with surprises— a new friend, the Shannon Spokes. She met Lightning McQueen, Cal Weathers. The fancy hotels, the sound of a full stadium of cars, and roaring engines of the racers.

And Jackson Storm...

Melise shook her cab, she felt that cold shock through her circuits again. He would never talk to her again. It was surreal how fast things could change.

She breathed a sigh, sliding her phone in front of her. Melise idled, reading the contacts screen, 'Vanda Rūūnes (Mother Dearest)'. She closed it off to sleep. Things were just as she left them, her mother swooning about Darrell Cartrip, and her grandfather going nuts for Jackson Storm. They didn't deserve to be disrupted.

Melise reached for television remote, quickly turning the channel to the Racing Sports Network. There was a show, starring former racer, Chick Hicks with a maroon car beside him, discussing the next generation race cars, among them Storm and McQueen.

"Next week's race you won't wanna miss, McQueen's chances of winning are narrower than a tractor's brain!" the green car mused from the screen, his guest appearing slightly annoyed with his remarks.

"I'll be missing it," Melise whispered. She watched the program change to a clip of Storm being interviewed, she recognized the voice, it was Shannon. The speedway, Motor Speedway— it must've been a few days ago.

"Great to pick up another victory, Storm! Tell us how you're feeling!" Shannon smiled, her tone it's usual bouncy confidence.

"Yeah, it's good to beat the other competitors, they barely stood a chance," Storm grinned, cameras flashing behind him.

Melise's mouth formed an 'O', was he being sarcastic? Surely, his statement was true, he was a growing champion, but it sounded like an insult as he grinned to the camera.

Shannon seemed briefly stumped with the comment, expecting a more sportsmanship fueled reply.

"Well, do you have any encouraging words for our viewers at home?" Shannon laughed nervously, changing the subject.

"Oh yeah, I do," Storm said, rolling towards the camera, cutting Shannon out of the shot. "When McQueen has his retirement party, I'll be sure to send anyone who wants it, an invite. Can't watch the elder champion leave without a good gathering."

Shannon bursted into a fit of nervous laughter, Melise could tell she was totally stumped. Storm was delivering a trance of unexpected comments left and right.

Was there a reason to be to brash? Melise watched the rookie racer brush off some fans asking for a picture, his front coating the same incredulous look at them she had last seen, it brought back the unsavoury memory. She turned off the T.V.

This was him, this was Jackson Storm. How had she not seen it before? He didn't care about how others felt, the way he brushed away young fans, the shady comments about McQueen, the way he yelled at her when she was caught in the squall between him and paparazzi.

Melise sucked in a breeze, her bottom lip bitten in place by her teeth. She had never given someone a reason to belittle her, but he did. She had tried to befriend him, but he was cold, each day seemingly colder.

She threw herself in drive, and exited the suite, her luggage in tow. Melise hardly acknowledged the stares of some female cars down the royal purple curtained hall.

She headed towards the main lobby, a frown upon her hood as she tried to erase the memory she had with Jackson. Shannon's eyes lit up as she approached Melise, the shimmery tone on her paint seemed to be less vibrant as she looked over her friend.

"You're always a great reporter," Melise smiled, her tone shaky as her eyes began to weld up in tears, Shannon embraced her.

"And you will always be a great oil runner, Melise. I'll never forget you... quite literally— what's your phone number?"

Melise giggled, the chipper tone seeming foreign since the day before. She began typing the number into Shannon's phone. She soon glanced behind Shannon to see her supervisor approaching, he wore a smile across his fenders.

"Well, I hope you have a safe flight, it's not going to be the same without you, Rūūnes. Still admire your hard work." He slid a an envelope to her, sealed in a default white color. "Here."

Melise, pulled the envelope to her, reading her name across it's heading. "What is it?" she asked, shooting him an inquired look.

"Your paycheck, silly!" Shannon giggled, "Still so cute! And here, another gift, this time, from me," she unravelled a poster, the bright sparkling brown car on the front, winking with her signature headset on. The caption read, 'Spokes is so Stoked to meet you!' In the corner, Shannon had personally written her signature. It was a work of art. Melise stared in amusment and awe, "Wow, Shannon, thank you, so much, I'm so stoked to accept my gift from Spokes!"

Her boss and Shannon burst into a fit of laughter, Melise's tone was so innocent when she said it, almost making the slogan sound like song lyrics. She grinned sheepishly as she tucked it in her bag,

neatly with her paycheck, quickly latching the tow to herself, feeling much better about her departure. She had made a great friend.

"I'll miss you, 'Hun. I'll call you when I have my off hours, till then heal up well." Shannon waved 'good-bye' to the young convertible with her supervisor. The white pick-up truck gave her a firm nod, and a smile as she waved back, heading out of the Wheelsworth Inn.

"Good-bye beautiful hotel," Melise smiled, reading the elegant front sign as she merged with the main road traffic. "Good-bye, Jackson Storm."

* * *

"She left!" Tony shouted, "now what?" He paced back and forth in an oval motion throughout the suite, "what the hell do we do!?"

"Well, she probably caught on, kudos to her," Preston replied, he took a sip of some IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline as he watched Tony fuss.

"You're such a freakin' chump, Preston, you and your 'Lucky 95' stickers." Grid exhaled, "Well, if she's gone, we still have Storm around."

"Dumb ass, the whole point was that the cars think they're together, now it's obvious we lied!" Tony hollered, annoyed.

"Dude, chill," Yarvis replied, entering the suite with a room service cart, "I can hear you whining down the hall."

"Then why the hell are we so chill when our ATM literally just left?"

"'Look, we're all screwed over, but we've still got the cameras under our rims, if they want news, we'll whip up a story for them."

"Like what?" Tony asked, calming down.

"I dunno, maybe we could make a fake profile..." Grid's front lit up, the others thinking over the idea in awe.

"I don't know how you get these ideas, Grid, but it's genius. We aren't gonna be broke anymore, bring on the business degree." Yarvis said, tossing some beer to him.

"Nah, I'm just wild, bro." Grid popped open the cork, downing the cold liquid.

* * *

"Usually when stuff like this happens, conflict between Piston Cup staff and racers, the Series is quick to getting it shut down. Bad publicity." Gale stated, Jackson by her side as the two waited for the receptionist to return.

"You know, I didn't ask for company, Gale."

"You don't have to, it's my job to keep you company... unless you'd prefer boring hotel bodyguards." she chuckled, Jackson thought over the idea briefly, shaking his cab in detest as Gale laughed on.

"It's alright, I'll leave you alone once you fi—"

"Hello... Mister Storm! Ah, it's nice to meet you!" the maroon and mauve mixed Camaro said, her old fragile tires bouncing as Jackson fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, nice to meet you too, and all that jazz." he replied, his tone mostly void of any excitement. "Melise, peachy convertible, what room's she in?"

"Oh, well that is strictly private, Mister Storm," she boomed, exchanging glances with Gale and the racer, his face bored with her statement. "And besides, the patron in that room checked out of the hotel about half an hour ago."

"Wait, wait— what?" Jackson's front contoured an expression of bewilderment, he looked to the old Camaro for answers.

"Miss Melise Rūūnes? She checked out of the hotel today."

"But it's only noon, we haven't even left for Los Angeles..." Gale trailed off, seeing the blank look on Jackson's hood. Something wasn't right.

"She left..." he repeated, trying to make sense of everything. She was leaving the Series? Was she a fool?

"Well, she left almost an hour ago, so will that be all?" the Camaro said, her old woman posh accent quickly turning to a fit of coughs as she breathed in the exhaust of screeching tires, Jackson Storm speeding out of the lobby suddenly. Gale watched the race car zoom out, the roaring of his electric engine echoing down the road and halls of the hotel. Some cars looked on, speechless.

Storm didn't think twice, he sped through the traffic. Gale wouldn't be fast enough, and the nearest airport wasn't far, Melise wasn't getting on that plane.

"Who does she think she is?" Jackson remarked, he watched a lone plane flying above the freeway as he drove down, "she better not be on that plane."

* * *

The airport shops were always a good discount, she could load her carry on with sweets for herself, and perfumes for her mother. Melise caught sight of some Jackson Storm and IGNTR inspired souvenirs. The racers was sporting a friendly smile on the merchandise cardboard cut out. Melise studied it for a moment, he looked pleased, his teeth pearly white as his black paint glimmered. She couldn't help but feel annoyed. He was fooling everyone... her grandpa, with is fake sportsmanship. She shook her hood in dismay, making a U-turn back to the terminal.

Her mother would be awestruck about the news, she wasn't going to let any news escape. As far as Melise was concerned, there was no relationship, and she didn't want to be around Storm any longer.

"Figured I'd find you alone, weirdos usually are."

Melise froze, she felt her hood heating up, and her circuits begin to freeze over. She could see the glow of neon blue decals in her peripheral vision. She turned, her hood full of rosy blush, eyes starry.

It was Jackson Storm. His expression seemed to relax further from his usual cool grey eyes, to viewing a once over of her, the corner of his mouth curling to a half smile. He wasn't breaking a sweat.

"Hey," he said, tone relaxed and calm. Melise stared back.

"… Hi" she murmured, keeping a distance. Fearful of the events repeating. Most cars passed without a second glance of the two.

Storm breathed a sigh, closing his eyes, "look, I know things went over the deep end last night; I got pissed, said some things I shouldn't have to you."

Melise's eyes widened, was he actually being kind? It felt like ages.

"So here, you don't know what it's like getting through airport terminals when you're not on a flight. Melise, I'm sorry."

He sounded sincere. Melise was surprised, not only for his sudden appearance, but for the apology. He even said her name for the first time.

Her features softened, and Melise looked down, she didn't seem ready to accept his apology, almost conflicted. She wasn't expecting this.

"Um…"

"I mean it, I'm sorry for yelling, for saying you look like a— what was it? Garbage truck, yeah as if," he said, seeing her hesitate. The last time he had this much pressure on someone's reaction was when he was just a trainee racer at the academy.

The P.A system announced flights were boarding passengers, and Melise watched crowds of vehicles approaching the gate. She felt a cold rush again, this was it, and now, she wasn't so sure she wanted to leave.

"I didn't spread anything about you to the media," Melise said suddenly, gauging Jackson's reaction, he stared her down with his usual cool expression.

"I wasn't expecting it to happen, last night, I meant."

"Neither was I, but we can forget about that," he glanced to her fender, seeing she looked better than he last saw her. No busted bonnet, her headlight was bandaged, better than he could do it. She looked pale, and her voice sounded tired.

"Why are you leaving?"

"I have to. I have no—"

"Why?" he repeated, giving her a confused expression. Why was she running away? Was the press really that scary for common cars? She didn't look that bad.

"...I resigned from my job," she said, almost a murmur, shame on her hood. Jackson's eyes widened for the first time.

"So you're leaving?" he said in a harsh confirming tone, Melise shot him a dumbfounded expression.

"I have to, I can't work with a broken headlight. No more oil running, no more hotels and no autograph from Darrell Cartrip." He gave her a face at the random mention of the commentator.

"No more of anything, I'm going home." Her voice became gentler as she finished.

Jackson looked defeated, Melise knew he wouldn't admit it. Why would he care if she left? She wasn't his crew chief.

"Jackson," he glanced to her, briefly focussing on her left fender, his stupid signature was still there. Maybe it was hope. "I have to go now..."

He didn't say anything, he just watched her, an expression she couldn't much read on his front. He looked... Angry? Sad?

Melise went to the gate, looking back a few times, seeing the racer still staring on, his expression becoming a faraway look, he almost looked like he wanted to say something.

Melise felt a stand still of dispair in her system. He came all this way, and he looked so lost now. She felt bad, but what else could she do? She had to leave.

With a glance around, Melise saw no cameras, she left her spot in line, and rolled over, a gentle smile on her fenders. His expression became a look of confusion as she returned.

"Forget something?" he asked, his tone seeming to return to its usual cool nature.

She didn't answer as she went to his side, his grey eyes following her suspiciously.

Melise nuzzled against Jackson, her right fender pressed gently against him, soon her entire cab. He didn't even jump despite not expecting it. She inhaled his scent, feeling the warmth of his engine.

"Promise me you won't be jackass?" she said suddenly, innocently. He could feel her words on his side.

After a moment, she reversed away, giving him a quick nervous smile as she headed back to the gate. He looked like he was in a world of confusion. He stared back, his teeth showing just slightly through his arched mouth.

'huh...' Storm watched the last of her back bumper heading into the airplane gate, he felt slightly sick. He could almost still feel the pillow-like softness of her fibreglass against him. She was truly pushing her luck.

"Hey, Mister Jackson Storm?"

Jackson turned to see three young teenagers, their eyes seemed to light up as he acknowledged them blindly.

"Can we get your autograph on our fenders?" one said, a braces filled grin on his mouth.

"Uh... yeah... sure..."

Melise wasn't getting away that easily.

* * *

 _ **Random question, but do you think cars cologne is like air freshener for the vents in the car? So many questions for Pixar...**_


	19. Chapter 19: Merge To The Slow Lane

_**Chapter 19: Merge To The Slow Lane**_

The plane travel felt longer than the three weeks she spent on the job. Going back home itself felt surreal, as if the rural spacious home Melise grew up in hadn't been seen in a matter of years.

She idled by the side of the road, viewing the peaceful beauty of her homely neighborhood. The trees had began to grow spring leaves when she left, and now they were blossoming along with Vanda's plants. The front yard seemed less vibrant, and the flowers looked dull.

 _'She must've forgotten to water them... '_ Melise thought, approaching the home with a warm smile on her front. She attempted her usual glance through the door, curtained off by cream colored drapes concealing life on the inside. She didn't bother waving her tire, it didn't sound like anyone was home.

Melise unhooked herself from heer towed luggage, rummaging the bags for her key. She began reminicing the nostalgic school days when she'd giggle and bounce on her shocks to the front door.

 _'The wheels on the Honda go round and round...'_

Vanda would watch her little daughter headed down the side of the road, happier than a circus truck, singing something new she learned in class each week.

The tiny convertible would see her mother, and yip in glee, speeding to her opened tires. Each time, the bow behind her roof would fall off, and Vanda would remain at wits end of the oddity that Melise's bows would fall off on the way home, but never at school. Nonetheless, her daughter's joyful squeals made her engine warm.

 _'Welcome home, my little winter bell,' Vanda would coo, cuddling her._

For the longest time, Melise wondered why her mother gave her such a specific nickname, until she was in the third grade, and realized she was the only student whose birthday was in December. Her mother said it was during a steady snowfall, a peaceful night, two days before the first of winter—she was born. Her rosy hood seemingly never erased under the winter night. Her mother would gaze upon the little Honda— her grandfather by her side,

' _she is my little girl, her name is Melise 'Wynter' Rūūnes, and she is so sweet.'_

And from the flutter of her lids opening to reveal those big brown eyes, she was as lovely as the first snowfall every year.

Opening the front door, the sound of the television in the far room was playing. Melise could only guess the voices through the screen based on the muffled tones. It sounded like a news program. Someone was home. She glanced about the spacious bungalow, seeing not a thing had changed. Her mother's China plates— each one still sitting on a different shelf around the home, the abstract vases holding flowers along the hallway with family portraits of Melise and her older sister— long since moved away, married, and seldom visiting.

"Melise?"

She turned to see an elderly 'Jackson Storm' resembling a much older model Honda staring back at her, a smile spreading across his cheeks. Her mother was telling the truth, her grandfather had gone all the way with the merchandise. It was no question who he was a fan of, he even managed to get blue neon in his rims.

"Ah, it's so good to see you!" he beamed, giving her a warm embrace. Melise stared him up and down, a look of awe and amusement on her front.

"Wow, Grandpa, you really did dress up like him... "

"Darn right! Never in my life did I think I'd live to see a car travel fast enough to give me a heart attack if I even tried what he does daily!" He glanced suddenly to her right fender, his smile fading.

"Melise, what happened _here_?" she shyed away despite herself, her grandfather noticed.

"You got in an accident?" He asked, innocent assurance on his hood.

Melise nodded her hood, "Oil running can be _tedious_... sometimes," she said, a nervous smile appearing on her front. He seemed to beam with content again.

"Well I'm glad you're all okay," he examined the bandage covering her light, "A broken headlight is not as bad as a broken engine!"

"For sure!" Melise mused, she could feel her fender beginning to pulse, the pain was slowly creeping back in.

"Where's Mom?" Melise glanced across the space, still hearing the T.V. in the other room. "Is she watching racing with you?"

"Ha! Your mother's never been interested in racing cars, except that Cartrip fellow," he said, a chuckle in his tone.

"She's been gassing up overtime hours at the café. Says service has been slower the past few weeks."

"Oh," Melise idled in thought. Her mother had always owned a small café in the suburban commercial area. Vanda had an optimistic outlook on her shop, she was a merry Honda in her café. Melise could easily remember when she was little spending several days of the week where she would spend time playing in the mini staff room, while her sister and mother served customers. Months while Vanda trusted no one else besides her own father to care for her daughter. Melise had to be honest, she didn't quite like being there. Loneliness played a long part of her time, and what friends would want to hang out in a small staff room until closing time?

"Well, they're talking about the big race tonight on the Racing Network," Grandpa Rūūnes said, turning on his tires back to the living room. "When she gets home, we'll have to talk some more about that dented light."

Melise sighed watching him go. Her life was exciting and spontaneous several hours ago, now it was slow again. She rolled to her sanctuary, opening the garage to her bedroom, feeling immediate comfort in it's dimmed center. Life was boring again.

* * *

Jackson could hear the wailing and deafening screams from on lookers in the grandstands. He was thankful their screeching was muffled in the confines of his trailer. The tinted windows made it even better as he kept away from prying eyes.

The racer was parked in the far corner of its dimmed interior, abstract tunes played quietly from his radio perched on a shelf above. He'd have to leave eventually, but the press was annoying, and the last cars- as well as Chick Hicks, that he wanted to run into. Instead, opting for peace and quiet.

 _'Calling me a jackass... Yeah right...'_ Jackson thought annoyed, remembering Melise's goodbye. He almost didn't hear her when she snuggled against him.

He'd idled there, watching her go through the gate, and barely realized a word she said as she left, catching him completely off guard when she moved in for the hug. He could still feel her fender pressed to his side... it was like a pillow, and he would continue to admit it- he wasn't expecting affection. The way she was timid and gentle, it made Jackson cringe begrudgingly. She was so different from the rough racing world. He had rammed other racers, been rammed, all the hectic nonsense of training— Storm expected. When she hugged him, it was soft and warming. It made him feel out of place, as if he were relaxing on a beach for the first time in his life. Maybe the simulator wasn't enough to burn off steam.

Now, Melise was gone. No more random encounters, no more substance conversations, no more weirdo-interesting cars. Just the race, here at Los Angeles International Speedway.

Jackson exited his trailer, inhaling the immediate scent of vendor snacks, and hearing the loud screams of the audience.

It was surreal. Several months ago, Ray had brought the rookie to train at the empty speedway. Jackson couldn't stand all the distractions- the marbles, the sunlight glares and even his crew chief talking to him. Ray told him it would all be nothing sooner or later. At the time Jackson thought he was nuts... he was right.

The once empty race way was filled with chanting cars, and loud hollering that one would have to yell over to speak to somebody else right in front of them. The grandstands flickered with waving lights and camera flashes. The racers' corner was another story, Jackson glanced to see several next-gen racers cruising about, some posing for shots, others being interviewed... and McQueen. The red veteran cruised cautiously among the chaos, a worried look upon his hood that Jackson easily ignored, turning his attention elsewhere.

"How are you feeling, Storm? All set?"

Jackson adverted his eyes, seeing Ray pulling up beside him and the trailer.

"Faster, better. The usual," he replied, his tone confident. Ray's eyes relaxed as a smile spread across his grille.

"Great, then lets head to the track." Ray said, silently observing Jackson as the two departed his trailer, security SUVs quickly moving in the guard his mobile home. He was certain the rookie was awestruck about something, perhaps he remembered their drills here months ago, or he was thinking about the convertible. Knowing him, Ray was hopeful it was neither. Storm didn't need anymore distractions, he was on top of his streak now.

Ray noticed another racer eyeballing the two of them among the squall of race cars and pit crew moving about. A racer sponsored under Nitroade with a front recognizable to Ray's memory shot a glare at Jackson as he approached the two.

"Someone actually sponsored you?" the young, new rookie asked, his features becoming softer and inquisitive as he looked Storm up and down in disbelief.

"Oh hey, Treadless," Jackson said, a small enthusiam in the racer's tone, he almost didn't recognize him. "Must've gotten better on the simulator, watching all those wins, huh?"

Tim shot Jackson a look of sheer annoyance, "this isn't a game! Piston Racing is real. Soon enough, you'll be last weeks track rubber if you keep up that crap."

"You know, those virtual cars always drove better than you, faster even. It's not a good look on you, Treadless. I could still give you those pointers, it might help."

"Enough! Both of you!" Ray butted in, seeing Jackson's cool smile fade for a second, before remain in place. Tim shot the crew chief a look of annoyance and resentment. The pick-up truck's expression became one of his own resentment as he looked back at his former trainee. Tim was a talented racer. No doubt about it, he was fast. What Storm lacked, Treadless made up for, and it wasn't always gracious on both ends. Where Jackson Storm was a force to be reckoned with on the track and simulator, then a racer who was rough around the edges, and sometimes as cold as coolant- Tim Treadless was a fast racer, always attempting to one up Storm, with friendly demeanor to his competitors. The two were like bickering brothers under his supervison, except Ray noticed Jackson was out of the ordinary. He was fast and determined, but alone. No friends, no one to watch his rear-end. Ray saw potential, but he needed encouragement. While Treadless was trying to compete, Storm was simply giving his all because he wanted to. He never quit, and Ray was certain for some time Jackson had little clue what he was really racing for, but it was a different experience than his fellow competitors.

"I've got a race to win, later." Storm's engine came to life in a heavy rev, the ground beneath nearby cars vibrating with its strength as he rolled towards the track. Cameras soon following him.

"Welcome ladies and gentlemen to another great evening of racing!" Bob Cutlass announced, his voice ringing around the arena as the chanting got louder. "I'm your host, Bob Cutlass, here with Darrell Cartrip to bring you navagation right from the heart of the action, here at Los Angeles International Speedway!"

Jackson began his departure from the pit lane, approaching the pack of race cars with confidence shooting through his system. There was a noticeable contrast to the champion veteran, McQueen, still looking lost amongst the next-gen racers.

' _He's still here?'_ Jackson pondered, watching the older racer out of place in the line up. ' _Seriously, he's gotta let it go sooner or later.'_

Jackson peered down the line up, not a single old racer present. They were replaced fast, and it was a wise choice. This was the new era, advanced, faster cars. No more 'you're not as fast as McQueen', because he didn't belong. If the losses weren't clear, Jackson didn't know what would be.

"Hey, Champ," Storm rolled beside the awestruck veteran, his blue eyes turning to address him with an almost clueless emotion in them.

"Where'd all your friends go?"

Jackson looked ahead, the once foreign track inviting him to his victory, leaving McQueen behind with the retort. He lined himself up to his pole position of first place.

"Time to win this," Jackson said, a cool confidence in his tone.

"Remember to pit every twenty to thirty laps. Good luck out there," Ray replied though his headset, watching Jackson circle the track towards the checkered line. With a wave of the green flag, the roaring of his engine was audible, loud and clear as he sped forward, the other racers falling behind steadily.

"Hey, if you need to blow off any steam, give the world your best laps," Ray said over the commotion.

Jackson thought over the comment. Was he talking about Treadless?

Zipping by, Ray could soon remember watching him stumble, watching him grimace, seeing his discomfort. Now, Jackson Storm was a natural. On the jumbotron, his calm stoic expression fixed on his face with concentrated grey eyes focussing on the track ahead of him. He had this win under his rims.

* * *

The televised event playing rooms away was audible from the confines of her bedroom. Melise could close her eyes, and remember how it felt being right there by the track. Minus the fact that she could hear her grandfather hooting and hollering along with it. She didn't like hearing the race, a creeping feeling of guilt began to pour in again with each sound.

She slumped on her axles, her undercarriage resting on the warm comforters of her bed. Jackson was likely in first place, a winner as usual. Melise glanced to the corner of the room, spotting textbooks her sister had loaned her. She rolled over, and shoved them under her bed, paying no attention to them.

'I hope he wins,' she thought, returning to her bed. She couldn't forget how powerless he looked when she last saw him. When he came all that way to apologize, to seemingly try to stop her from leaving. It made her engine warmer, and she would let him know by invading his personal space. He didn't seem to mind much, in fact, he might've been caught off guard completely, judging by the perplexed expression on his hood. It felt good to be close to him, he was sturdy and snuggly.

"Hey, Melise?" Vanda peeked under the garage door to see the convertible smiling at her. "Ahh! You're home!" the lavender Honda Accord dashed inside to hug her daughter.

"I've missed you so much, Hu— _what happened_?" Vanda froze her axles in place, studying the bandages.

"A kind of long story, but I crashed... a little."

"A broken headlight is not 'a little crash', Melise," her mother lectured, feeling the bandage over, making sure it was wrapped properly. "We'll have to change the gauze tonight."

"Calm down, Mumma," Melise said in an innocent sing-song voice mimicing her childhood. Vanda rolled her eyes, smiling at her daughter. She noticed the grey autograph on her left side, just below her light.

"Ohh, you met Jackson Storm?"

Melise glanced down quickly then back up, "uhm, yeah... "

"But not Darrell Cartrip?" Vanda said with a frown.

"Mom, I really tried. He's just a very... busy... man" she thought her words through.

"Well, there's always next time," Vanda sighed, her smile soon returning.

"You should be resting with a broken fender, Hun" she brought her attention back to the issue.

"Mom, I'm fine" Melise stretched her axles, emphasizing their ability to move. She rolled towards the door,

"are you making the special for the cafe tomorrow?"

"Yes, pistachio gas pies," Vanda said, watching Melise's eyes light up.

"Cool! Do you need any help? Please say yes."

"Sure, Wynnie," Vanda replied, a soft motherly tone in her voice.

"Mom!"

"What's wrong?"

"You used to call me that when I was a kid, please not anymore." Melise felt the embarassment surging through her circuits.

"Aww, Honey, you've been gone for nearly a month, it was so long without you," Vanda giggled

"It was three weeks," Melise returned her own laughing.

"Ahh! Oh no!" the sudden hollering of Grandpa Ruunes in the living room filled the house.

Vanda dashed to him, Melise soon following behind. She was fearing the worst as she headed into the living room.

"Dad?" Vanda said, worry in her tone as she followed his stunned expression to the T.V.

Melise felt a cold surge through her roof, right to her rims. It was the race... and Lightning McQueen, he had gotten into a serious crash at the speedway.

She turned to gauge her grandfather— a long time McQueen fan before Storm's— reaction. He was frozen still, horrified at the veteran laying motionless with his cabin bent and bruised. His tires all burned apart, spoiler barely hanging on by a small piece of metal, and engine smoking.

McQueen opened his lids weakly, seemingly coughing twice, then closing them before ambulances arrived to cover the scene.

It took Melise a few waking moments before she recognized Shannon's voice,

"And... a truly devastating... crash, " the RSN reporter said, her voice shaky and stunned, "of our favourite long-time racer, Lightning McQueen... "

The clip soon changed to Jackson Storm, and Melise nearly reversed into the wall behind her.

He looked visibly confounded, his grey eyes fixed on the jumbotron along with the racers behind him. Soon enough, his features contoured his usual concentrated stern expression, and he picked up speed again. The other racers followed suite, as the devastation on the track was soon lifted. The race continued.

"Ay! Go Stormy-boy!" Grandpa Ruunes mused once again, his nature seemingly coming back to life. Melise didn't bother questioning her perplexion.

"Well," Vanda breathed a sigh, "We'd better get started on those, umm, pies. Come on, Melise."

Vanda headed towards the kitchen, Melise followed her soon after, a slow roll of her wheels as everything seemed to go back to normal, as if Mr. McQueen didn't just possibly die. What else could anyone do anyway? Hopefully he was alright.

"And Storm carries another victory over 'Ka-Blowout'!" Chick Hicks gloated, a futile attempt to ease the air. Some fans booed from his small audience, tossing souvenirs at the green racer for his lack of sympathy.

Jackson watched the display, amusement on his grin as he headed down the pit lane, greeted by Leon and Ray.

"Good job out there, Jackson," Leon said, "I clocked you in at 207 miles per hour."

Storm raised a lid "Huh... so I'll keep the speedometer that way, keeps the other guys in the back."

Jackson noticed Ray was lost in thought. He idled beside some lightyear tires, a look of somber on his grille.

"Hey, you alright, 'Gus?" Jackson said, attempting to snap him out of his trance.

Ray looked at him, "I'm fine," he emphasized, "it's been years since I've seen a crash that deadly."

"Yeah... it was pretty bad, hope McQueen's alright. He should take the career off." Jackson said, turning to see Gale reversing his trailer into the back.

Ray sighed, "I suppose you're right, Storm."

The racer headed towards his trailer, little attention turning his way. Everyone was focussed on Lightning McQueen even when he lost. Jackson reversed his way into the trailer, stretching his axles before he shot Chick Hicks a smirk through his self-inflicted mob of confrontational and angry McQueen fans across the lot.

Peace and perfect quiet.

"Hey, Storm," Quincy opened the back room, peeking out. Jackson blew out a hefty sigh. "Congrats on another win, damn."

"You better not decide to leave that room," he replied, addressing Quincy behind him.

"Well I was gonna ask you to let me roll ove-"

"You wanna roll over me?" Storm asked, confirming Quincy's question.

"If you insist," the forklift climbed over Jackson, and the racer soon shook him off when he reached his hood.

"Watch it," Jackson warned.

"Damn, either Gale needs to get you a bigger trailer or you need to get smaller," Quincy said, shaking off his tires.

"I told Gale to make sure I was alone, I like my life private."

"Hey, I'm not gonna get wasted again," Quincy replied, hearing Gale start her engine faintly outside.

"Doesn't sound like such a bad idea to celebrate my win."

Both were silent as they remembered the gruelling encounter. Jackson was surprised McQueen wrecked himself. He didn't see it coming, half expecting Treadless to be more minor competition than McQueen pushing his RPM to the limit. The ordeal was just bad, not enough to stop the race, but bad. At this point, Jackson's advice must've hit him head on, it was time for retirement.

Storm heard Quincy whistling as the trailer began to move with the road.

He wouldn't admit it, but he wanted to forget yesterday completely. What was the point of even driving to the airport if she was going to leave anyway? Melise wasted his time. And touching him, yeah, she she was pushing her luck...

"You know," Quincy began, Storm glanced to him, a bored look on his front. "when I was in high school, there was this girl, Yerma. She was one of those tomboys, you know, the girls who like guy stuff?"

Jackson stared back, blinking once. "Okay... and?"

"Well, she started out like that, then she just— man I don't even know, but she went from being gruff to having cave-like tendencies. She would refer to herself in third person like the big beast she was down the halls and on thee school yard. I liked that she could crush me, she used to open my can of oil with her teeth, man that was awesome."

Jackson, raised a lid, confused.

"Anyway, I knew I had no competition for her, so I asked her to the prom"

"Where is this going?" Jackson asked.

"It went nowhere, because she found another dude at prom, one of those Peterbilts. He threw me into the basketball net, and she ignored me while they madeout on the dancefloor."

"Wait... what?" Jackson began laughing as Quincy shook his small cab in dismay. "Okay, I laughed, how does this relate to me?"

"Well... Gale!"

"Yeah! What's up!?" she spoke through the intercom.

"It's obvious, right?" Quincy asked, Jackson stared back in confusion. He always felt confused around these two.

"Uh, a little!" Gale replied, never directly saying what she was talking about.

"Yeah, so it's obvious." Quincy said turning back to Jackson.

"Wait, wait, what's obvious?" he asked, waiting for a response from either.

"You liked 'Peaches'," Quincy said simply. "Well I can only assume."

"That's what this is about!? Her!?" Jackson looked astonished. "You're kidding me!"

"I bet even Ray knows."

"Oh please, you think because I said sorry to her that I like her? And was that story even real?"

"Fine, I'll stop." Quincy said, a smile on his grille.

"But I know you didn't like that she left. Even Ray noticed."

Storm shook his hood closing his eyes, "my own team is spying on me."

"Look, listen," Quincy lowered his voice. "I know you probably think you're never gonna see her again, but I got you a little something that might help."

Storm looked at him a bored look on his front again, "and what is that?"

"Her last name is Rūūnes," Quincy said, matter of fact.

"It is? Huh, cool last name," Jackson said, interested.

"So the hotel wouldn't give me her contact info, so I searched her last name up, and found a family business under that last name."

The trailer stopped, and the forklift hit the hatch opening button, soon reversing out into the lot of the hotel.

"Call if you want," he gestured the personal phone in the trailer. "Maybe you'll hit the jackpot and 'Peaches' will answer!"

He headed towards the hotel with his ending statement.

"Don't let Ray find out about this— this time around," Gale smiled coming around the trailer. Jackson looked amazed and bewildered at the same time.

She watched the racer drive past, his expression returning to its usual calm state as he headed into the hotel without another word. Gale had to giggle to herself. This was the most interesting season she had thus far.


	20. Chapter 20: Now What?

_**Chapter 20: Now What?**_

"We have no more money."

Grid spoke as he parked himself next to a sulking Tony in their Los Angeles suite.

"You said, 'there's always a way to make more bucks', we're broke now!" Grid breathed a sharp and annoyed breath as Yarvis studied the laptop a few feet away.

"I didn't think things would get this bad!" Tony replied. He looked exhausted as he slumped to the floor.

"Things are harder when there's no one around to photograph except Storm." Yarvis stated, not looking up from his laptop.

Grid thought for a moment, peering at the screen the Yaris was immersed in. Storm's little meltdown with the cameras about two weeks ago was quickly becoming old news as McQueen's near fatal crash took actual headlines. Paparazzi were eager for shots of the veteran racer hiding away instead of Storm's latest after race interviews. It made selling cheap news all the more difficult.

"Why are we even doing this?" Yarvis asked. His eyes peered up, looking at the two cars in front of him.

"She got treated like a VIP for no reason." Grid stated, attempting to justify his stance. Tony soon chimed in.

"She got deals, access to the roof venue without even being invited... she got an autograph from Storm when she's not even a fan... " Tony said, an annoyed tone in his voice.

Grid began snickering, "Dude, admit it."

Tony shot him an incredulous look as Yavis looked his friends on in confusion.

"you wish you could be as fast as Storm."

"I bet I could be! Sheesh, why do you have to be up my tailpipe?" Tony brushed off the comment. "Does it look like I care."

"Yeah," Yarvis answered simply, garnering an eye roll from Tony.

"You're pretty far up Storm's tailpipe, way to mask that envy." Grid joked.

Tony suddenly tossed a stuffed toy at Grid, the grey car swiftly dogged the toy as it hit the wall behind with a squeak.

"A Hudson Hornet plush toy?" Grid laughed examining the stuffed car, and turned to meet Tony's glare.

"Where'd you even get this thing?"

Tony's eyes became neutral once again. "I found it when I was cruising around out at the back lot. There was a bag full of them outside of a trailer. I was bored, so I grabbed one."

"Didn't our boss say there's a memorial fair tomorrow for the Fabulous Hudson Hornet? Maybe that's what they're for." Yarvis guessed.

"Probably. That also means we get the day off." Tony said, thinking about it.

"So, we gonna make that online profile we said we were gonna make or not?" Grid interrupted. Yarvis stretched his axles, "What's the point? We just pull fake publicity out of our tailpipes and expect cash to just flow in?"

Tony opened his mouth to protest when the room garage opened. Preston rolled in, his red paint contrasting the look of anguish on his front.

"Take it easy, bro," Grid said. "Lightning will be back in the season soon... maybe."

Preston said nothing as he rolled past the trio, soon relaxing on his tires in the corner.

"Where did you go?" Tony asked, watching his friend slumped in melancholy.

"I tried to see if I could meet McQueen while he was recovering, but the hospital was keeping a low profile. Man this sucks." Preston soon answered.

There was a new silence in the room as the four thought over the devastating event. They could remember the sounds of shredding metal and sparks flying as the legendary racer tumbled down the speedway. It wasn't a pleasant experience to witness.

Tony soon broke the silence, his tone genuinely confused as he stared over the plush toy once more, "Who was the Fabulous Hudson Hornet anyway?"

Preston, Yarvis and Grid collectively shot him a look of confusion and amazement.

* * *

 _ **Has anyone else noticed that Jackson Storm resembles t**_ _ **he model of the Nissan GT-R R36 set to be released in 2020? I always thought he looked sort of like a Lamborghini mixed with a modern stock car.**_


	21. Chapter 21: Memorial

_**Chapter 21: Memorial**_

Her eyes didn't open, but she was awake. Melise stretched on her axles, and inhaled the comfy scent of the covers around her. These hotel beds were so different from her own bed. The duvet felt like a hefty warm wave of water hugging her. Her rims were warm and tingly as she reminisced the day. Her supervisor told her to relax as he delivered her breakfast. The deep purple curtains shielding all rays of sunlight from entering her suite as she slept, a long deep sleep, the kind that happens once in a lifetime...

She opened her lids spontaneously, seeing the blue curtains of her bedroom. The sunlight hardly streaming through the dimming fabric, and her comforters warm and blue in color. The room wasn't elegant and royal purple. It didn't blossom a foreign excitement and wonder with a skyline of Nashville out the window. There was no race to prepare for, only another day in the slow lane.

She straightened herself up on her tires, taking an easy wide-mouthed yawn, ignoring the protests of her bandaged fender. A draining feel— an almost depressing feeling of boredom wiped across her world. There wasn't much to expect today. There was no cruise with Shannon, no speeding race cars, no oil running, and it sucked.

After freshening up, Melise took a moment to look at herself in the mirror. The peachy fibreglass Her fender hadn't been much of a concern the past few days. In fact, she was certain it had healed up faster than the doctor speculated. Indefinitely, there was still some discomfort with certain movement, and sometimes there was pain, but her fender was the least of her worries, her life was spiraling down into a depressive state of boredom, and she couldn't bear it.

"Ready to go?" Vanda mused as she peeked under the bedroom garage door.

Melise jumped, reversing into her bed. Her cab jerking to a stop as her rear end hit the frame, "Ah, heh... yes!" She took a deep breath trying to make light of being caught off guard by her mother's invasion into her room. She had told her to knock first numerous times, but naturally, she didn't.

Vanda giggled at her little display. "Let's go, the cafe awaits!"

Melise put on a fake smile as she followed her mother out of their home. She just wanted to go back to sleep and dream about being an oil runner again.

* * *

The air had changed. Instead of burning rubber, gasoline and exhaust, A sweetened scent of popping corn, sweets and refreshing beverages filled the speedway and hotel. Annually, the Piston Cup series took a day off from the hustle and bustle of racing. Fast race cars, talented driving, loud engines, and hollering fans— it took a back seat to honor the late racing legend, The Fabulous Hudson Hornet, and all his humble glory. Racers, technicians, crews and reporters alike, took to spending the Tuesday like it was a Sunday evening. The speedway mellowed down to eager small groups of fans joyfully racing one another. Hudson Hornet themed treats and souvenirs florished the hotel and speedway.

Ray noticed the memorial was receiving a full tank of support this year. Beside many fuzzy Hudson toys, lay a stuffed, red, Rust-Eze race car, smiling his confident grin of life. Blue and Red ornaments coated the scenery, and Ray felt his engine warm in the atmosphere. There was no need to be busy today.

"Reverham! It's great seeing you again," A voice came from behind the crew chief. He turned swiftly, a surprised look on his grille.

"Stats?" Ray looked the bi-spectacle car up and down. He hadn't seen the data wrangler since Storm was merely a trainee at the academy.

"Pleasure seeing you," he grinned. Ray returned a smile.

"I've been keeping an eye on Storm and Treadless since they've ' _graduated_ ' racing school," he said, emphasizing his wording. "I see that Storm hasn't given up. He's still at the top of his scores."

"He doesn't quit." Ray replied, remembering Storm's very own words.

"He'd better not, there are more youngsters coming into the series quickly— some of the best in their hometowns."

"He trains diligently everyday. The simulator is like a drug to him, I don't think there's much of a worry. He's giving his all, that matters most." Ray said. He watched as some Piston Cup employees— one dressed similar to the late retiree, Bobby Swift, and another, a dark blue pick up truck, laughing hysterically as they popped balloons in each other's front end. The red and blue balloons bursting loudly under the weight of their tires.

"What do you say we catch up, Ray?" Stats asked. He began driving, Ray followed by his side. "I know a lounge you might like."

When Ray entered the professional setting lounge, he felt as if he was in his very own dream. The place was free of noise, free of children, and all around refreshing. Older coupes and sedans alike took it upon themselves to relax, sipping quarts of oil, and reading newspapers. Some conversed respectfully among each other, while others enjoyed the quiet atmosphere, as Ray and Stats parked in an empty booth.

"I still recall seeing him racing around a training track, free of IGNTR's sponsors," Stats said, a smile growing on his grille. "I have to say, I'm proud of Mister Storm."

"If he keeps up his streak, they'll award him a platinum Piston Cup." Ray stated, watching a waitress forklift pass by, giving him a sweet smile he returned kindly.

Stats began reading his menu with interest. "Or a sponsorship under Dinoco," he glanced up to the crew chief in front of him. Ray was lost in thought. If Stats knew the chief any better, he must've been imagining Jackson Storm painted light blue, and more gruff than usual. He looked haunted by the image.

"Well, I'll be having the meatball medley," the bi-spectacle car said, removing his eyes from the menu in front, and changing the subject.

"Let's not get get ahead of ourselves with Storm. His sportsmanship is still rough around the edges." Ray soon replied.

Stats breathed a sigh, giving no answer. Ray knew he had seen some of Jackson's less 'finer' days during his time at the academy. He didn't need to answer.

Ray was relaxing for once, and there was no reason to worry today. But he couldn't shake the dilemma that came with being Storm's crew chief. To put it simply, he was a talented jerk. Fast and foul, unique and unsettling, confident and crass. It was never a good mix, and Ray had gone up and down trying to break the distasteful traits before conflict began. He wasn't lucky in stopping the brash force of Storm from hurting some cars, but Ray considered Jackson to be fortunate either way. IGNTR had seemingly pushed it under the rug, and kept their cool with him, thankfully. Ray just wasn't sure how long they, or anyone would put up with him. There were no true obstacles standing in Storm's way, so it was seemingly impossible to straighten him out for a reason he could grasp.

"Relax, Chief," Stats said, breaking Ray from his thoughts. "You're a great trainer and mentor. If Mister Storm doesn't want to see a different perspective, he cannot be forced, perhaps due time is on your side with those wins of his."

Ray nodded once, thinking over Stats' words of wisdom. He was right. The time would come, and Ray was almost certain it was already happening. Nonetheless, if Jackson continued to keep a low profile with his taunts, fortune was likely on his side. His greater qualities could shine, like his confidence, his carefree obligation, and most importantly, his talent as the fastest car in the circuit.

Today was a good day, a relaxing day. And Ray wanted to keep things that way. The chief looked to see the same forklift from earlier park in front of their table, her warm smile returning.

"Hello, are you gentlemen ready to order?"

* * *

"I would rather you stayed at home, but..." Vanda began, trailing off as she studied Melise's bandages. The two cruised down the path, reaching the cafe as Melise gave her mother a reproachful look.

"I'm fine, I just... need to get out more often," Melise said, her voice bland and bored.

Vanda pushed open the twin glass doors of her cafe, noting Melise's surprised expression. The doors had never been glass.

Before Vanda could explain, or unhook her tow of oil pies, Melise was inside, taking a view of the dimmed and different interior. Her doe eyes lit up as she circled the dining room, staring in each direction with her mouth slightly agape.

When Vanda turned on the lights from the new designer chandeliers, the cafe presented itself with overwhelming beauty. Once barren tables were clothed with red, parking mats replaced to match. The walls— a new warm cream color, with red accents along the ceiling and floor edges. Windows were replaced and widened, giving an entire garage length of sunlight to awaken the diner.

Melise felt the familiar feeling once again. She could remember her tires tingling as she rolled across the Wheelsworth Inn's purple carpeted floors. She could feel the new, wholesome atmosphere returning.

"You look impressed," Vanda said, a smile on her front as she headed to the order counter.

"It... I... it's amazing," Melise cruised to back of the cafe, passing her prideful mother. She noticed a medium sized space, curtains pinned to each side.

"Is that a stage?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah, I remembered how you used to sing those cute little songs in pre-school, so I threw it in with everything else."

"Oh, Mom, I can't sing!" Melise gave Vanda a horrified look.

"Then maybe we'll find a customer who can!" Vanda joked, "I really hope you like the place, Hon'. I know how much you dreaded being here when you were younger."

Melise frowned. She could remember whining and crying some days after school out of boredom because Vanda was so busy. Her mother's RPM were skyrocketing whilst little Melise's tantrums in the staff room made the stress worse. One of the less fond memories she had of the cafe. Something she made up for as she blossomed into a mature young lady, ready to support her mother every step of the way.

"I love it. I mean it." Melise said, honesty in her tone. She could see her mother's eyes light up.

"Great! Because I love it too!" Vanda squealed.

"Okay, now we open in an hour. A shipment is also supposed to arrive, along with the forklifts for prep."

"Take it easy, okay?" Vanda pat her daughter's bandaged fender with her tire. "You're still injured."

Melise watched Vanda head into the storage room behind the front counter. She was alone on the dining room floor.

Things were going to be different, there were new expectations. For the first time since she let the Piston Cup Series, Melise was ready to start the day.

* * *

Several weeks prior, the high life of the fast lane as a rookie Piston Cup racer was an exhilarating, new experience. Now, it was an annoying fanfare with stuffed toys and balloons everywhere. It was now evening, and Jackson felt as if he were at a silly carnival. He glanced from his opened trailer among the crowds of fans, racers, families and Piston employees alike. Some officials noticed the rookie champion, and began snapping photos of him, congratulating Jackson on his several wins.

"Storm! Do you have any advice for the fans out there, hoping to make it to the big leagues?"

"Train hard, maybe you'll beat me one day. Maybe," he replied, boredom on his hood. He rolled from his trailer, towards the exit of the speedway, ignoring several glances. The training facility was the place to be. No annoying cars, no Chick Hicks prancing around in front of a camera. Just him, and his private simulator.

The facility was barren, not a car in sight. Jackson began his cruise towards the transparent room, inscribed with his intricate hurricane emblem on the door. The racer quickly braked, glancing towards the large showcased twin simulators in the opposite direction. He could hear an engine revving low, and soon realized he wasn't alone. Treadless was firmly transfixed on the game of Super Corsa 3, better known as SC3, and reeling in point after point on his laps.

"Wow, Treadless," Jackson said, sarcasm slightly evident in his confident tone, startling the racer, "looks like you finally got better on the sim."

Tim swerved, his virtual experience soon ending in turmoil as his points decreased with his spin out.

"Dammit!" he paused the machine, shooting a glare Storm's way.

"We could settle this," Storm said, hopping on the simulator beside.

"I beat you once, I'll do it again." Tim sneered, starting the race between the two.

Jackson hadn't played SC3 in nearly a month, but he was certain his skills were fine tuned. Treadless wasn't a threat, not on the race track and not a chance on the simulator.

As the virtual green flag waved, both racers revved their engines, speeding past their computer competitors. Storm found the game suddenly a feeble joke. When he was a fresh rookie, Super Corsa was still something of a fun challenge. Now, it was akin to taking a cruise down an empty freeway. Everything not only moved more smoothly than ever before, but the virtual racers were slower than McQueen. Jackson hardly raised his RPM's as he clocked in at 210 miles per hour, winning the race with ease.

"You don't have to be such a dick about it," Tim said, his tone resonating annoyance as he listened to Jackson hooting beside him as the virtual trophy enscribed his name on it.

"Relax, Treadless," Storm replied, sensing his opponent's defeat. "it's all in the talent on the track. Besides, these virtual cups aren't as awesome as the real thing."

"You know, when I heard you won at Copper Canyon, I figured you actually became a race car with sportsmanship, guess I was—"

Jackson began his joyful spells again, as Treadless glanced to the screen, hearing the simulator of SC3 emphasize Storm had broke his previous record of 202 miles per hour. The last record made when the two had first raced against one another at the training academy months prior. Storm was too estatic, engraved, and embezzled in the game to care about what Tim had to say. The Nitroade racer descended from his place on the simulator, and made his exit, a look of annoyance and defeat on his front.

"Time to take that victory lap!" Storm mused, a grin on his front as he revved his engine loudly, the empty facility trembling under its energy.

When Gale entered the facility, she wasn't surprised to find Storm hooting and hollering in joy. She watched the racer revving from a distance. A smile graze across her grille. She always felt her engine get a little bit warmer when she could see Jackson was visibly pleased, grinning from fender to fender. He spent so many days being stern and serious for the cameras that he looked like a happy little boy right now.

Jackson was in his own world as he celebrated, taking no notice of his hauler watching outside his private booth. Gale could have spent her time counting each lug nut and tire on his trailer, but instead she was more interested in seeing if Storm would take the opportunity she and Quincy gave him several days ago- to call the convertible, and ease his tension. Seemingly, tension wasn't an issue at all, as Jackson was as stress-free as he could be right now. That game was something else.

Gale didn't like to admit the inevitable, but it was all for the better, indefinitely. IGNTR didn't deserve another stunt of bad publicity to ward if anything happened again, neither did Ray. Jackson was maturing more each day, and with each new winning knot under his tire, came new opportunities and more challenges to take on.

"Wanted some fairy-tale for the two of them too, huh?"

Gale glanced behind in her mirrors to see Quincy approaching, and soon idling by her side. "They're going their separate ways, and it's the best for both of 'em. Gotta admit though, the guy is still hard to read, even after working with him for almost a month."

"And what made you switch gears so quickly?" Gale asked.

"Well, Storm's not up for giving his time to her, and she didn't want to continue her supscription for the Deal of A Lifetime." Quincy said simply. Gale chuckled beside him.

"She had to leave. Not willingly, Quincy," Gale replied, matter of factually.

"I like my version better," the forklift replied.

"Spying on me again?"

Both vehicles nearly jumped from their chassis', seeing Jackson Storm, and all his glory, idling in front of them. His grey eyes half closed and suspicious. After a moment of silence, he rolled past the two, keeping his eyes trained on them till he passed. He let free a deep yawn as he exited the training center, making it clear he didn't expect an answer. Gale and Quincy eased after the racer was gone.

"New plan," Gale said, clearing her throat to make an announcement "Why don't we forget everything that has happened— as in, no more plans, and go get some drinks?"

"Fine by me," Quincy replied with a grin leading the way out of the center.

* * *

The place was beaming. Cars filled the cafe like never before, many taking a bite of Vanda's special of the day, her homemade pies, placed on red plates to commemorate Mr. Lightning McQueen. Melise was smiling bright, keeping her distance behind the scenes in the closed off hall near the washrooms and staff room. She could remember being cooped up in the staff room years ago feeling comfort away from prying eyes, but lonely and boundless. Now, she was eager to get on the dining floor and see the bustling atmosphere for herself.

She watched her mother interact with each customer as if they were family. The smiles, the giggles, the compassion. It was amazing. Throughout the diner, cars enjoyed their meals and company alike. It was like all the dreams of success Vanda had mixed into one with Melise's very own missing adventure.

A young red car hopped on stage, a shy smile on her hood as her mother grinned and cheered her on from the small audience. She had a camera attached to her rim.

"Go on, Sweetie, give us your best! Oh, and smile for the camera!" the silver SUV said, as her daughter smiled back.

The young girl's confidence seemed to sky rocket back under the cheers of her family and on lookers. She smiled a toothy grin, and revved her engine as loud as she could.

"SPEED, I AM SPEED! QUICKER THAN QUICK FASTER THAN FAST, I AM MADDY!"

Melise giggled to herself, a bright smile on her fenders as the cafe cheered for the young fan, her shy smile returning as she huddled under her mother's treads.

"Are you, Miss Melise Rūūnes?" a sudden voice came, a slight posh accent to it. Melise turned on her wheels swiftly, facing a shimmering white Lexus, professional written all over her appearance.

The expensive-looking coupe could see the convertible hesitant to answer as she looked her over. She studeied the Honda's peach paintjob, the doeness of her eyes. It was definitely the car she was looking for.

"You can relax, I don't mean to intrude," the woman said, a smile grazing her glossy grille. "You can call me Reyna. I'm here representing business tycoon, Eddie Turo."

Melise returned the smile nervously, and soon, giving her a perplexed look. "Eddie Turo?" she repeated, inquiring to understand.

"Yes, Mr. Eddie Turo, owner of Element Sleek Rims, worldwide fashion icon for those looking to spice up their RPM." the worlds rolled of her tongue with such spunk and confidence that Melise could feel herself getting smaller.

"You have met Jackson Storm!?" she mused, reading the signature on her left fender, ignoring Melise's sudden embarrassment. "Oh! Mr. Turo is a fan too!"

"Well, i-it's nice to meet you, Reyna. Are you enjoying your time here at the diner?" Melise desperately tried to change the subject.

"Yes— oh my! You are just as cute as in the magazine!" Reyna replied suddenly. Melise could feel some guilt creeping back in. In a magazine? Was this about her 'harassing' Jackson Storm again?

"Okay, umm, I better go now—"

"Wait!"

Melise frowned and glanced at the Lexus once more. She looked so out of place in the casual lounge atmosphere of the cafe.

"Okay, listen," Reyna began, her expression becoming serious. "Mr. Turo has been scouting for a talent natural enough to represent his new line of rims and tires to match. He found you to be perfect for the opportunity through your interaction with racers."

Melise froze in place. She wasn't sure for a moment if she was dreaming or her engine shut off. Someone found her 'model material'?

"Wha-What?" her hushed voice was caught in her throat. Reyna studied her convertible frame without any shame on her hood.

"I know, it must be hard to believe, this different encounter and all. However, Mr. Turo has never been wrong in his choices." Reyna stamped a personal business card to Melise's inner tread, keeping it from the eyes of viewers.

"Now I hope this isn't much of a bad time," Reyna said, examining the convertible's bandages, "but that card has our personal number on it, we only give these to clients we are interested in meeting." She turned to examine the tray of snack size pies being towed by one of Vanda's employee forklifts, and elegantly slid one in front of her from the others. replacing the pie with several bills. The forklift's eyes lit up with gratitude as Reyna nodded a thank you. Melise seemed stunned.

"Give us a call, Mr. Turo would love to have you on his team," she gave her a sweet smile, reversing away with her pie in tread. "Oh, and, you make great pies here."

Melise listened to the soft hums of her V8 engine as she gracefully left the cafe. She was stunned, confused and amazed all at the same time. She reversed into the staff room, grateful it was empty.

Element Sleek Rims? Was that what the Lexus said? Wasn't that a brand name rim company known for it's luxurious and expensive rims? The CEO wanted her for his new line? Was this real? Was it some sort of joke?

Melise stared at her reflection in the long wall mirror. She look the same as always. Plain peach fibreglass on a Honda. Her tires were dainty and her hood was rosy, perhaps even rosier than usual. Her fender was still covered in bandages, and was steadily throbbing with the new discomfort.

'Me?' she thought, staring back. 'That can't be true.'

The staff room door swung open, and Vanda cruised in with glee. "Ah, today is a great day!" She spun on her tires as she caught sight of Melise's expression.

"Everything okay?"

Melise glanced to her mother, her doe eyes becoming inviting and content. "Everything is just... peachy."


	22. Chapter 22: Element Sleek Rims

_**Chapter**_ _ **22: Element Sleek Rims**_

The setting would take some getting used to, but it was clearly a new experience. Wide panels, squeaky clean and clear as the sunrise in the distance. A wide, empty space with laminated oak flooring. It was an atmosphere that evoked some sort of peace and imagination.

The sensual stare of the white BMW coupe pierced the quiet air as she observed Mr. Turo's anticipated guest from her desk approaching the scene. Her lively brown eyes studied the world around her with awe and caution. Her peach coat shimmered lightly in the glare of the red dawn. Her bandages were fresh, but it was of little concern to this particular world. She rolled on her tires, axles stiffened, towards the center of the office.

"Mr. Turo, she is here." her voice was mature and oddly professional for it's seductive-sounding tone. Melise didn't hear a response on the intercom, and quickly decided it was the way things were around here. He would arrive soon enough if she was worth his time.

Reyna gave the convertible a sweet smile from the far end of the room. Melise parked herself in the large vacant office. She couldn't believe she was actually here.

* * *

"He's recovering, with his family. It was a surprise, to all of us." Shannon said, somber in her tone. She could hear Melise sigh lightly. Her soft voice in its usual ambience.

"I hope for the best for him," Melise replied, not sure of what else to say to ease the discomfort of seeing the late racing legend, Mr. McQueen crash. It was all the talk outside of the racing world, she could just hear the hotel beaming with emotions about it.

"Hey, you know, I interviewed Storm for the first time days ago." Shannon said. Melise could hint the flatness of her tone.

"He's... hmph..." the RSN reporter trailed off, shaking her cab. Melise didn't respond on the other end of the call.

"Sort of a jackass?" Melise inquired innocently. Shannon bit her tongue, a method she acquired to prevent on-air unprofessionalism. A fit of giggles erupted from her.

"Oh gosh, you always say the funniest things, Melise!" Shannon mused, knowing the girl was likely blushing and smiling coyly on the other end.

When the two cooled down, Melise remembered the white BMW who sought after her. What better way to get professional advice about gigs than from a racing journalist?

"Mister Eddie Turo? CEO of Element Sleek Rims? As in, the most luxurious rims and tires in the world?" Shannon sounded surprised, heightening Melise's anxiousness.

"Yes. I've heard of it before, but not much from it being expensive and rich."

"Element Sleek Rims has been featured in Rolling Tires magazine, they even work with racers sometimes to promote new rim wear. They're known for many different styles. Posh, trendy, hipster, racing. You name it, they've got designer rims to show off for it." Shannon replied.

"I'm not posh, trendy, hip or any of those things... why would they want me?" Melise asked. She seemed to ask herself the question more than Shannon.

"Hmm, well it's not unlikely that they must've found you through Jackson Storm." Melise felt her cabin get cold with the mention of his full name. She ignored the feeling and listened.

"It's odd you're the apple of their eye. They usually sought out after racers, athletes, or supermodels for new brands coming out," Shannon continued. "Strange."

Melise nibbled her bottom lip, wondering what this was all about. She wasn't posh, she wasn't trendy. She wasn't a racer, she wasn't a beautiful super car model. She was just an oil runner, yet, the odds were somehow in her favor.

"You know, everyone starts from somewhere, Melise. You should check it out. Who knows, maybe you'll be their next supermodel."

When her grandfather heard the conversation, he offered Melise sound advice she couldn't stop remembering.

"The cafe, it's what your mother dreamed of, " Grandpa Rūūnes said in his Storm get-up. "For years, I wanted to see her happy, you wanted to see her happy. She's worked hard, and now look at her. She remodelled the place to pristine. Her sales have gone up, her happiness is sky high. She was dancing with customers just yesterday."

He was right. Vanda was living her dream. She didn't need Melise to forge some more content. That was her mother's life. The convetible's life was ahead of her, and she should explore the opportunities around her.

"If they want to see you, whoever this fancy company is, take the chance." he said, giving his granddaughter a warm smile. Melise didn't feel she ha to think about it. The choice was clear now, eiher way, she couldn't say she didn't get the opportunity to be on the team of Element Sleek Rims.

* * *

"Allow me to escort you, Miss Rūūnes." Melise shyly drove alongside the woman she had met once before, Reyna. Following the humming of the BMW's engine down the luxurious hallway adorned with intricately designed rims and tires. Some were sparkling in what could only be imagined as grated gold, others perfectly porcelain white, treads and all.

When the silver twin doors opened, Melise found herself in a spacious room, void of any business etiquette. The walls featured more rims, particularly, catering to a race car design. Hubcaps were bowled inward to create the very same image of a racer's tire. Some were varnished with ESR on the treads, while others were larger or smaller rim size, shimmering in different colors depending on the lighting.

The coupe exchanged a pleased smiled with an approaching sleek black Hummer. His eyes turned to Melise and presented a warm and confident smile. "Thank you, Reyna." With his words, the BMW exited the room.

"Well, I'm pleased to meet you Miss Melise." he said, looking her nervous cab up and down. Her doe eyes presented a nervous smile back.

"Edison Turo, but you can call me Eddie," the man said greeting her, "or Turo. Whatever you prefer."

Melise tried to come up with words, "Hello, Mister Turo." she answered, her voice quiet.

He stared back, a bigger grin on his bumper as she addressed him, "I'd imagine the timing was, off, but I'm glad to see you, Miss Rūūnes."

He parked his mammoth cab beside her, "I take that you've seen the many rims?" he raised his tire, emphasizing the designer tires framed behind glass along the walls.

"Yes," Melise answered stifly. "They are... interesting."

The CEO laughed, watching the blush rise to the young convertible's hood. "Aren't they? I'm glad you find them to be intriguing!"

Melise covered her mouth with her treads. She was always awkward with first impressions.

"Ah, there she is," Eddie mused, watching Melise's shy spur. "There's the girl we love."

Melise's mouth formed an 'O' and she tilted her cab in question. "Um, I don't know what to say."

"You're too adorable," he stated, taking in a breath from his laughing fit. "But I'm sure you're wondering why I invited you here." The Hummer accelerated forward, making a U-turn to face her as he pressed a button cleverly disguised as a tile. Just then, several tiles on the ground in front of the businessman opened to reveal a glass casing. Inside: four tires, each with different designs to accent them.

"Imagine, just picture it, these rims on the average Joe," Eddie said, watching his prized possesions, and turning his attention to Melise. She was eyeballing each one.

He watched as her doe eyes caught some interest in the race car edition. The dark blue ring circled the rims and outer treads. Eddie wasn't sure, but he could almost sense that she seemed startled by them.

He cleared his throat, continuing, "Genuine racing tires with intricate rims to match." He gestured for her to come closer. "They even glow in the dark," Eddie grinned. Melise seemed in awe.

"What if some racing sponsors, decided they wanted name brand tires to sell to the fans?" Eddie asked.

Melise watched as two forklifts carried four tires towards her, lining themselves up beside Mr. Turo.

"And you know what? They did." He cruised around the casing, facing Melise head on.

"COMBUSTR, SynerG, IGNTR, they opened the idea, and here at Element Sleek Rims, we built it."

"It's a-amazing," Melise said, noticing how well the tires matched the real ones on the race cars she once worked alongside. The resemblance, besides the missing Lightyear logo, was uncanny.

"That's not all," Eddie said, gesturing his henchmen to the convertible. Melise hardly had a chance to react before they removed her tires, and replaced them with new, heavier ones. She tried to see her new tires with little luck.

Mr. Turo parked himself back beside her as the forklifts held a large mirror in front of her. He watched her front light up with surprise and awe as she viewed the new tires, a perfect match to her peach paintjob. The outer treads featuring a double thin ring matching her fibreglass.

"These are the IGNTR feminine line, this color, made just for you."

Melise's awe quickly turned into an expression of shock as she eyed them cautiously. IGNTR?

"What do you say, Melise? IGNTR thinks your perfect for the role, I think your perfect."

He could feel his oil pressure fluctuating as her shocked face didn't dim away.

"All that we want, is your beautiful demeanor and smile. No discomfort, no diets, no disruptions on your personal life." Mr. Turo said, smiling to her through the reflection.

He paused as she seemed to think it through diligently. "If you do agree, we will also provide you with free rims, the one's you have on."

"You chose... _me_?" She was genuinely confused.

"WE, chose you." Eddie stated.

"Instead of... _racers_?" her reflection stared back.

"IGNTR says you're great for the job, and we love your adorable face and small frame. Your decision?"

She blinked twice, eyes grazing over the rims and tires in the case, and around the room. Melise felt there was some sort of guilt on the racing sponsor's part. Her eyes showed some potential, interest that warmed Eddie's engine.

"I accept," Melise said gleefully, watching Eddie's eyes grow wide and a big grin appear on his bumper.

"Great!" Mr. Turo dismissed the forklifts, leaving the two cars alone. "I'm pleased to hear that, really!"

He headed towards the door his henchmen left through, gesturing his tire to her, "Come on, I have much to show and explain, and introduce you to the team."

She took one more glance at her outstretched tire, the peach rims glimmered in the sunrise.

Melise still seemed to be in shock as she followed him, the world of oil running quickly changing to rims and tires. The experience, increasingly surreal.


	23. Chapter 23: It's All In The Job

_**Author's note:** _ Since the veteran racers have been retired/replaced, I always imagined Cal would spend time relaxing in the Weathers' home backyard with sunglasses on, drinking chocolate milk with oil mixed in. Then some fans photograph him, and it makes headlines: Cal Weathers' retired and enjoying milk from the comfort of his backyard undisturbed. And Bobby and Strip Weathers' tease him about it.

* * *

 _ **Chapter 23: It's All In The Job**_

"Mister Wheelhouse! Mister Wheelhouse!" the chanting of three cars caught the attention of the Transberry race car, and he turned, smiling wide as he faced them. "Hey guys, want a picture?"

Their headlights seemed to shine brighter as one of them bounced on his axles, "YES!"

The racers were enjoying their last night off, keeping their RPM's low as they conversed and enjoyed the company of fans and family outside the Los Angeles speedway. The evening was quiet and relaxing before the departure to BnL Raceway soon.

H.J Hollis glanced from his quieter patio parking spot to see Shannon Spokes, swaying her cab left and right with a warm grin as the jazz band played on. Hollis wouldn't pry, but he was certain she was just a little tipsy tonight. Some cars just needed to burn off extra rubber when work was a common place to be. Hollis found himself stretching his axles as he still felt sore from the power training he had this morning. Four-hundred and fifty laps on the open arena and over 199mph for the entire stretch. Sometimes, he genuinely wondered how some of the other guys managed to lock their speeds and take each turn. The track always sported a fresh set of skid marks, and he had to smile at the thought that some of them were totally from him.

Casual revving with 'Oohs and Ahs' resonated around the scene every passing minute. As a race car, he was used to it— had to be, it was all he heard round the track. When the distinct electric rev in a distance caught Hollis' attention, he turned to see a small group of cars jump back, and soon huddle back around the bored-looking livery-black race car, Jackson Storm.

"That's so cool, man!" one coupe said gleefully as the others laughed at the surprise. Storm looked tired, uninterested even, but seemingly, trying to be interested in what they had to say, raising his lid ever so often.

Hollis took a long gulp of his drink, ignoring the taste of mostly melted ice. He could hear N20 Cola right now, "pleasure to have H.J but even greater to make some sales, win us a Cup!". They must've thought this racing life was easy going all the time. He closed his lids, exhaling as he tapped a tire to the jazz beat.

The confident and eminent tone of Storm grazed over his talkative fans, "huddle in, let's get some pictures, one for each of them," he scanned the cars as they lined up with cheeky grins. "Today's their lucky day."

Hollis watched as Storm flashed his friendly smile to the cameras. He seemed like a natural surrounded by his admirers. That was challenged when a young adult male fan, an obvious outcast, creeped his way to the racer. He had a Lightning McQueen stuffed toy clutched in his tread.

Jackson paid little attention as his fans galloped away, leaving him to his desired solitary. The peace was interrupted in moments as the young man invaded Storm's space, looking like he was about to cry a surge.

"For DAYS, I have cried, man you don't KNOW!" the red car said, his 'Number 95' decals and stickers clearly showing his pride. Storm stared back, a lid raised as he reversed merely an inch to avoid the tears and fluids of his meltdown.

"Please," he whined, "for both of us!"

Hollis was uncertain for a moment as he peered in on the dramatic display. Was he referring to the toy? He soon found himself conflicted between wanting to cringe or stare in sympathy as Jackson huddled closer to the boy and his stuffed McQueen, ignoring his further waterworks as he smiled for the photo.

"Thanks... man!" he jittered as his tears streamed down his hood. He sped off in a cacophony of cries as Storm stared on in confusion. Hollis didn't blame him.

Soon enough, Hollis could hear the arrogant thrills of Chick Hicks as he made his way past the patio, eyeballing the next-gens as he scanned the gathering for a car in particular. The camera crew tagged alongside him, as if his life was some sort of reality show. Storm took little time waiting for the retired racer to acknowledge him solely, and promptly reverse his way out of the scene with an un-phased expression. It didn't take long for some other next-generation racers to begin side-eying the green race car, he always loved to be in the spotlight, even if it meant invading a Piston Cup racer's personal space.

Hollis was relieved as Bubba took over, keeping Hicks at bay. The crew seemed delighted to speak with Mr. Wheelhouse.

"I would have preferred a streak winning champion, but you'll do, Wheelhouse," Chick said, his joke running flat as his crew did little but smile at the comment as Bubba eased the air with his friendly smile to the cars at home.

"You know, we're all here, just trying to ease up, enjoy the day off and night," Bubba said, cutting the air. "Things are cool, it's cool." Hicks seemed ready to interject with another comment of his own.

"Tell the folks, would you rather a lifetime supply of Transberry Juice, or a day at the old cars home rubbing medicated bumper ointment on their rears for the good of the Manufacturer?"

Bubba was stumped, almost ready to laugh as he listened to the question. True to his morale, shook his cab and answered, "For the good of the old folks, I'll give 'em Transberry Juice, how's that?"

Chick stared back, his lid raised as if he heard wrong. Wheelhouse shrugged his tires as Hicks guided his camera crew away. He must've saved the 'important' questions for Jackson Storm. Knowing his greedy pride was out of sight, Hollis turned his attention back to his exhaustion, and closed his lids in relaxation. Today was a long day, and it still wasn't over yet.

Winning was nice, it had it's perks, like being able to ignore cars without heavy judgement. Who needs to socialize when they could be out training to win some more races? The thought of having another stinky and dramatic fan next to him put the mood to a deflated state of annoyance and revolt.

Ray watched Jackson approach him in the lounge room. He could see the visible pleasure as his grey eyes noted the empty room.

"It's 8PM. I'm here like you said, what is it?" Storm asked.

Ray raised his lids impressed, it was just nearly 8PM. Jackson had improved exponentially since his training days months prior. Ray was proud of his time management skills twining properly as a professional racer should have.

"What's new?" Ray replied, showing Storm the printed email in front of his tire, "IGNTR needs you in the spotlight for their televised commercial."

"When and where?" Storm asked, taking his eyes from the notes to his crew chief.

"Tomorrow morning. Early, 5AM sharp." Ray answered, noting Jackson's lip curling to a pursed expression. He wasn't sure if it was bitterness or some sort of absent action.

"Gale programmed the route into her GPS, so you can just relax until then. Even get some rest."

Ray could see Jackson thinking it through, his grey eyes studying the names of the advertising crew on the notes. Soon enough, he glanced to Ray, "Thanks, Ray."

"No problem," the pick-up truck answered, "and the guys are a junior team with IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline, they've got some new guys to show the ropes to, and figured this would be their big break."

"Yeah, yeah, let's just hope they aren't carrying around McQueen dolls," Jackson replied, turning and cruising around the lounge. The hums of his engine echoed faintly in the room as he scanned the paintings on the walls with little interest.

"This place is nice without loud chatty cars," Storm said, viewing the space Ray seemed to always flock to. "Must be easy to get work done in the quiet."

Ray tided up the letters, watching the IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline logo catch a glint of artificial light and shimmer a flash similar to Storm on the track in the afternoon sunlight.

"Some cars hang around in here, but they're all quiet too, makes for a peaceful atmosphere. But maybe not so much for a racing champion" Ray said.

"Good thing I have my trailer," Jackson smiled.

The following morning Ray didn't bother to stir his sleep. He trusted Jackson, and knew he had his hood on straight if he knew what was best for his career. Still, as a diligent crew chief, he peered from his suite to see the intricate black trailer in the lot distance. Storm and Gale conversing words he couldn't make out from his distance as the red hot dawn rose.

"Quincy, Leon and the rest of your pitties have the day off," Gale said, backing herself to latch the trailer, "So I'll be your guard dog today." Her bright smile glittered in.

Jackson listened to the trailer's distinct click as it's lock mechanism engaged, "alright then, let's go before we wake up Ray."

"Yeah, does he even sleep at night? He's the chipper-est car in the morning," she raised a lid and thought about it.

"With the work he does, he's lucky to get any sleep," Storm replied, reversing into the trailer. He breathed a deep yawn as the hatch closed.

"Let's go," he said through the intercom.

"Let's get the show on the road!" Gale sing-songed as she pulled out of the lot.

Ray breathed a sigh, and fell back into his peaceful slumber. In a few hours, he would have to prepare the team for their hefty departure. He wanted to make the most of his time for himself.

Storm was at ease, slightly distateful of IGNTR's choice of timing, but it was the life of being a race car. Free time sped by as fast as he did on the track, and he would be dishonest with himself if he said— as of lately, that it was nearly as interesting as it once was. Jackson peered at the packs of palm trees and wide scenery of Los Angeles passing by outside the tinted windows. At some point, the blue sky, crashing ocean waves, and nature was something he begrudgingly began to seemingly appreciate more than he once did. Thankfully, that distracting and creeping interest wavered. The fast lane, a winning streak, and a clear raceway while going 200mph ahead of the other guys was more rewarding than some slow life.

He could see a standard-looking studio building as Gale pulled into the lot. The colors— a blend of grey wear and tear over the natural salmon coat of the bricks. It looked like a place that hadn't been retouched for years. But it's wide panel windows with the studio sponsor and oddly cool entrance behind a large media logo said otherwise.

Gale unhooked herself and pulled around, seeing Storm on the lot watching the building suspiciously in front of his opened trailer.

"This place looks sketchy," he said. His grey eyes glared around the features of the ugly building with some contempt. "I win several Cups, and they send me here?"

Gale wasn't always sure how to respond to Storm, especially when he was visibly annoyed.

"Well... this is the place. They've filmed many ads here, even some stuff for Octane G—"

"You know what, Gale? I'm not up for this anymore," his engine revved lightly as he made a slow turn away from the building.

Gale watched him turn on his treads. This was something important, "Jackson! Hey! Wait!"

"These guys are working for IGNTR?" he asked in a tone that was likely a rhetorical question rather than a genuine idea he would ever be interested in.

"In fact, we are," a grotty voice came from the entrance. Gale and Jackson glanced to see two cars, one with a headset and camera, the other a plain grey Wrangler.

"Good to finally meet ya Storm, I'm Don, the director here, but you can call me, 'Danger Don', that's the name 'round here anyway," the Jeep continued gleefully as Jackson eyed him with an emotionless expression.

"Likewise," the racer answered in an almost gruff sounding tone as he continued to eye the cars up and down.

"And Missus... uh..." Don trailed off, as Gale glanced between him and Jackson. "Gale. My name is Gale."

"Well I'll be!" Don chuckled, his cameraman joining in on the joke, "we got us a storm and gale winds!"

Gale found herself giggling as Jackson looked the trio on with a face of little amusement and lots of cringe.

"Let's head inside, I've got the run down off IGNTR's game plan," Don said, leading them inside. Gale could see Jackson was hardly having any of it. Thankfully, he was keen enough to keep his darker thoughts at bay. She couldn't understand his growing agitation, more than he usual had, as of lately.

As they cruised through the studio house, Don attempted small talk with Storm, getting half glassed answers. Nonetheless, Jackson took little interest in 'Danger Don'. The Jeep opened twin creaking doors, revealing a large professional green screen amass several high-tech cameras. Gale could see some brief interest on Jackson's expression before the sudden voice of a dopey-sounding male cut the air.

"Chrysler! It's really THE Jackson Storm!" a hefty white minivan squeezed his way from a dressing room to the arriving quartet. His heavy lisp causing sputum to rain on occasion. Crumps covered his lips and he smelled of old soda. The van approached an unstartled Jackson.

"Uh, yeah," Storm replied, unsure of what to make of him. "just don't get too close to me."

Don smiled, "yeah, we're lucky to be working with Liquid Adrenaline, son. By the way, this is my film making son, Martin."

The van bounced on his shocks, "hey, Mister Storm, can I get a picture with—"

"You said you had 'a game plan'? Let's get to it." Jackson interrupted. He accelerated in front of the three crew members waiting for their instructions.

"Alright, so the commercial is about Liquid Adrenaline. Taste great, makes you go zoom zoom. All of that," Don said as he slid several sheets of script to Jackson. "We'll have you rev that winning engine, then you say 'Wanna jet? Be on that podium? You're a champion. You're with the Liquid Adrenaline.'"

"Simple." Storm replied.

"But that ain't all," Don said, "We've got six more ads to shoot, including one with you drinking Liquid Adrenaline on Venice Beach."

Jackson sighed, "Let's get this one done then." He headed for the stage, passing Martin and ignoring his cheeky fan-boy grin completely.

Gale listened as Don gave Jackson the detailed instructions of how to look at the lens with pride, and pretend the entire world was behind it. It had to be easy enough as a champion racer.

"Storm! Pssht! Storm!" Martin called from the side,

"Cut!" Don announced, turning to his son. "Martin, we're rolling right now!"

"Sorry, I just need to meet him before it's all over." Martin muttered, reversing away as Jackson looked on in confused annoyance.

Gale could tell Jackson was giving most of his effort. His articulate tone was loud and clear as they filmed. He shone his clear smile to the camera with such ease that she was almost certain he had to be enjoying some of his flair. When he was asked to repeat the line several times in different tones and positions, his patience remained, until there was a loud crash as some boxes of extension cords fell over with Martin's back bumper as the culprit.

"Martin! We had it in the bag that time!" Don said. "You'll get your autograph soon enough. Settle down."

"Hey! Don't talk to me like I'm a little kid! It was an accident," the van said, his nasal and lisp tone harsh and upset. "You're the one who said I get to meet Jackson Storm, and that this was a good way to learn the ropes of cinematography!"

Martin's left front tire hit a support rope, and the green screen sheet came tumbling down on Jackson.

"Whoops! My bad!" Martin said, chuckling sheepishly

The racer tossed the material off his cab as he left the stage with a reproachful expression at the two crew members.

"Alright, I'm done with this," Jackson said, heading for the exit. "Let's go Gale."

"Wait! No I need a picture!" Martin whined as Don looked on in horror at his star began leaving.

"I don't deal with junkyard cars," Jackson said, exasperated, "and this place is dingy."

Don accelerated towards the exit after Storm, hoping to ease the tension.

"I know things are hectic right now, but you gotta stay. Please, come on, Jack."

Jackson gave Don a look of disdain, "You got your first ad reel. I'm out."

"Thank you," Gale said quickly as she followed Storm out of the building. The crew watched on, their frowns turning to annoyance at the director's pushy son. She could hear Don defending Martin as he argued with his father about not getting a chance to meet Jackson Storm as exquisitely as he wanted. Some fans were something else.

Gale found Jackson outside his trailer. His front had an expression of exhaustion upon its features.

He was more piqued than usual.

"Good work on the commercial in there," Gale congratulated, giving him a smile as he blinked and looked at her. She took the opportunity, "So... is everything a-OK?"

"Let's just get out of this lot," Jackson dismissed her concerns, "how long is the drive to Buy N' Large raceway?"

"It's going to be about five hours," Gale answered.

"Alright, well go get hooked up— you don't need anything do you?" he asked, reversing into his trailer.

Gale shook her hood, "I'm fine, full on both tanks."

"Good. Then let's roll."

Gale hooked herself up, still hoping Jackson would lighten up some more. Maybe all of those wins were of little treasure anymore. The substance was probably wearing thin, especially since McQueen was no longer competition.

She pulled out of the lot, following the road as she heard Storm's tunes playing through his trailer's walls. At least the request of IGNTR was said and done.


	24. Chapter 24: Some Things Never Change

_Author's note: Hello guys, sorry for the extra long wait, I was extra busy these last few weeks and didn't get much of a chance to read over reviews or check out other stories in the fandom. I've noticed that some of the recent chapters can seem 'boring' and more or less snippets of one-shots with Jackson and Ray and the others, but I assure you, things are still going up and down for each character, but there will also always be the "slower days' for action. I tend to really try to capture the essence of each character as they interact with other cars around them, and I want readers to have a solid ground of how Jackson (and the others for that matter) think and reason in different situations._

 _Hope you are all doing great, Happy Halloween! And Vroom vroom!_

* * *

 _ **Chapter 24: Some Things Never Change**_

The paint must've been a hue made to match a training track for a driving school of all places. A bright, carnival or arcade-like red font lining turn one and turn two. From the dark green Faux Wheel Drive team's pit, the crew chief— a pick-up truck doning the darkened army green colors, watched his racer ease his way around the track.

"This place looks like the track from racing school," Hurb, sporting his number 54 scoffed with a smile, speaking through his speaker , "it even feels like it."

His crew chief watched as some other racers entered the track, soon falling in line behind, "yeah, well, don't get too comfy, we gotta train."

"Maybe if I ease it up the RPM's, I'll make it to third place," the racer said. He listened to the hums of engines following his steady lead. The small pack soon sped up with Hurb's sudden jolt to 190 mph, their engines howling in the arena as some RSN officials cheered, and idling racers watched on, preping.

Leon ignored the growling race cars zipping around the track as the ground trembled under his small frame. He rolled down the series of parked trailers. The simple tone colors that once decorated each trailer now replaced with ombrés, tinted windows, and sleek polished tones that shimmered in darkness and light. Gale watched him approaching Jackson's closed trailer, ready to give him the usual one liner Ray was known to beckon his racer with.

"Where's Ray?" Gale said, quickly obstructing the pitty from the trailer's hatch with her body. He shot her an inquisitive look, "He's not here yet, but sent me a message to tell Storm— if he's not already— to start tearing up the track."

Gale reversed, lining herself up beside the trailer to face Leon. He noticed her peek inside the tinted window quickly before she turned her attention back to him. She looked as if she saw a ghost.

"Jackson's sleeping right now."

Leon stared back, blinking once, "Uh… he does know it's time to train, right?"

Gale sighed, "Of course he does! Storm's just taking a rest now— I mean come on he's gonna do fine, he's on a streak. Just let him... recuperate."

Leon stared back, he finally blew out a sigh. He opened his mouth to comment when the trailer hatch suddenly rolled down, revealing Jackson Storm, his expression it's usual nature with a hint of indifference to the world around him.

"I know it's training time," he said simply, looking at his forklift pitty. "I'll be out in 5 minutes, no reminder needed."

"No problem, Jack," Leon said, watching Gale seemingly shrink as Jackson didn't address her when he closed himself away a second time. His demeanor hardly seeming groggy or moody, just to-the-point.

Gale quickly followed the forklift, "Leo, wait!"

He soon turned on his treads, facing the approaching truck. "What was that about, anyway?"

She exhaled a breath, giving the environment a quick scan for privacy, "I don't really want to annoy him with demands."

"It's his job to race, train, repeat." Leon answered, raising a lid.

Gale scoffed, "I know that, duh! He just seems, I don't really know, kind of irritable the last few days."

Leon sighed, "He's got a race tomorrow morning, IGNTR, RSN, and we, all have expectations for him, and he knows it."

Jackson saw Gale leave the side of the trailer, allowing hot sunlight to warm his rim through the tinted trailer's windows. His eyes fell closed as he allowed his thoughts to flow freely.

What was this? The sixth, seventh win? It mattered. He would keep this up with the same ease. There was no real challenge with the other racers, they were fast, but they weren't as talented as him. Every turn, Jackson could feel the track rise, his axles could feel the traction fighting back with little chance of beating him. He maintained his speed as the track would straighten itself on his path, his engine blocking out much of the screaming audience, they were probably cheering for veteran racers that weren't here anymore. It didn't matter when Jackson could see the 'S' emblem sported on antennas and IGNTR souvenirs in the grandstands when he zipped by. The cars knew who the new champion was.

The cheers were good, sometimes they shouted, "Go Storm!", or his favorite, "There's a storm coming!" from the mouth of Darrell Cartrip as his electric roars pass the announcer's block. Jackson couldn't see the guy, but he heard there was some sort of flame get-up on his front end. Sounded cool enough as long as his voice didn't match his model. When Storm took a glance at the box high up above the cars in the audience, he caught a glare of sharp sunlight. That didn't disturb him as much as it once did, but the rare sight of a peachy vehicle caught his attention. He didn't catch much of a glance as he zipped by. If he was lucky he'd have noticed earlier, but the last lap was a breeze like any other.

His cool grey eyes scanned some pitties passing by with several tires in load outside the window. This was his 'Me' time, and Gale didn't have to be so weird about it. Speaking of weird...

Melsie? Or no—Melise, that was it. Weird rare names for weird rare cars. How could he forget a car like her? He still could hear her voice raise up an octave as she choked to scream out a cheer for him during his rookie week. She was always... interesting. Not just the doe eyes and guileless expression on a car no more than a few years younger than him, but the way she carried herself. Had he actually remembered much past the big eyes and peachy paint, on a twee front, or her terrified face when she lost control and scratched a speck of his paint. She drove like pre-schooler.

Maybe it was her who made the boredom ease out. She fell into a fountain like a clumsy and dumb tractor, fortunately she made it look graceful. Whenever she opened her mouth, something different came out each time. When Hicks opened his mouth, he was rambling redundancy even McQueen was tired of hearing. Some out-dated Piston Cup in tow as he pranced around on air. The other racers held up a front for the cameras and behind the scenes. The same one-liners to keep the press happy and the Network hustling.

She, Peaches— wasn't trying to squeeze into a cookie-cutter. She was a weirdo, the kind that Jackson was certain bit around a cookie instead of through it. She was a seasoned car who took her place and held it. Her traction was definitely under par, and her horsepower was weaker than an old forklift's, but she was always trying, even when she made a fool of herself. Storm had an admiration for cars who didn't give up, he knew the pride all too well himself.

One image the race car couldn't seem to erase from his mind was the apparent coy expression of contempt on her front as he arrived at the airport. She probably tried to hide it, but she wasn't as quick as him— in any way. She had her lids raised up in an arch, her eyes seemed to sparkle as she caught sight of Jackson Storm. For merely a few seconds, she managed to poke out her bottom lip in a pout, and her cheeks were rosier than usual. She had an even more interesting 'angry face', like a pissed angel wagon. Jackson was certain her reaction was to the sound of his revving, or presence in general. He would have to make a mental note to rev and catch her look of fluster and flush if he saw her again. She looked even better with pink tinge around her hood, especially if he was the influence of it.

But she was still a total weirdo— a cuter weirdo at that. He had already encountered a fair share of strange fans, some who would make a guy as car-pleasing as Treadless reverse in repulsion. Who asks for their undercarriage or tail pipe to be signed? Melise wasn't a fan, or so she claimed, but Jackson was still certain she pushed her luck at the airport when she left. Not only did she hug him without asking first, but she chose the slow lane over an interesting life. If it all meant nothing, she must've hardly had something here to begin with, as inconclusive as the idea seemed to be.

Quincy and Gale input a number of hers on the trailer phone, but it was of little use. Call her? What for? Hey how's the weather in your boring life? Useless. But he'd keep it anyway, even if she couldn't call him. Maybe she would somehow invade his life pleasantly again. Melise could be a spectator the grandstands, Piston Cup staff again— not a racer though, she wasn't much of a gutsy driver when it came to speeding. Worse yet, if she crashed then, that might be the last time he would see her. She looked good in peach, she looked even better put together, and with his print on her left fender.

Bringing himself back to reality, Jackson listened to the sounds of engines sweeping across the track in the distance. This job wasn't tough enough, and he wasn't sure how much more boring it could get. There was another race to win, and he was already certain how that would turn out.

He pushed the open button, and the hatch fell down steadily. Cameras flooded in, flashing on Jackson Storm's entrance to the track. His eyes apathetic to the mass following him.

"Storm! Jackson! Can we get a quick broadcast of how things are looking?"

"Sign my hood! Here!"

His tires kept rolling, "I've got a place to be right now. Later on." Jackson said, his eyes focussed on the BnL logo ahead.

Hurb accelerated forward, passing Treadless and Swervez after he rounded the second turn. They were hot on his tail as he watched the clear track ahead of him. It was peaceful, no cars to bump into, and a sense of freedom seeing the barren route all to himself. Hurb's eyes widened as an approaching engine became louder and louder. Soon enough, Jackson Storm zipped by, his face neutral as usual as he left nearly two vehicles of space between Curbler and himself. The IGNTR racer's black spoiler caught a glimpse of sunlight, and flickered as his engine dominated the stadium. Hurb felt his short lived reign falling to the top three again as his eyes focussed on the bold 2.0 painted on Jackson's rear. It was a familiar sight as Curbler entered each turn just as Storm was finishing it. Soon enough there was a distance as Hurb listened for his crew chief to say something. When his voice never came, he glance to the pit road to see him staring in awe at Storm rounding the second turn.

He was certain if there was a crowd in the grandstands they would be louder than Piston Cup oil runners with their empty quart cans hooting and hollering behind the pit lane.

"Wow! Did you see that!?" his crew chief's voice came.

"I always see it," Hurb said, annoyed. "Every, single, race."

From the safety of the Pits, Grid watched the Jumbotron. The IGNTR racer's face remained stern as his eyes shifted naturally around in his line of focus. He didn't smile to the cheering crowd, he didn't even seem to take note of the track he was sharing with the other racers. He was owning everything, and by the envious expression on Tony's hood nearby, it wasn't much of a friendly gesture.

"Keep dreamin' Tony," the grey car said flatly, insinuating on of Tony's usual glares at him. The blue pick-up truck said nothing else, and accelerated back to his station.

Once alone, Tony pressed his treads into the asphalt grating dirt and marbles as he moved his tires alone the pavement. He saw the way he treated his fans. He was a glorious racer, yeah. But the way he just ignored cars, and brushed off fans. Tony knew he would kill to have a life filled with fans and groupies, cameras following him to his races and broadcasting the glamour. Storm ignored all of it like it was some sort of boring plasma television to replace the old broken one.

Tony pulled his eyes from the asphalt below to see Storm glancing on the big screen towards the grandstands as some cars poured in. His eyes ran over them with this vibe of interest he should've had with his fans. Who doesn't love fans? They make life easier when they aren't moping the floor with all your problems. Some of them were probably fun too, although Jackson seemed uninterested in anything else. Tony could see right through his façade. It pissed him off more than he wanted to admit. Storm had everything, speed, talent, glamour and he was epic to the core, but the car himself was a total jerk. How didn't anyone else see it?

An approaching engine did little to pull away his attention from the interesting pavement.

"Grid, just go dude, I need to fix my station anyway. The boss man says we are the worst oil runners he's ever had." Tony sighed.

"Name's Danny, not, uh 'Grid'," the race car scanned his eyes over the cans of oil as Tony's eyes darted up, and awe rose in them as he watched the Octane Gain racer tapping one of his own quarts of oil with his large racing tire curiously.

"Oil!?" Tony choked out with a raspy voice he almost didn't recognize as his own. This was the Daniel Swervez, right before his eyes.

Danny looked him down with concern, "You good?"

The blue pick-up truck nodded his hood quickly in awestruck. Swervez stared back, his expression perplexed and slightly amused.

"Ok, need four cans in my pit."

Tony hardly hesitated as he hogged several cans and followed the race car to his team's pit, spilling a few as he drove.

"I only need four, bro. But thanks." Swervez scanned his eyes over the mess as Tony's eyes remained transfixed on the Octane Gain colors around him.

"Chrysler! Dude I saw you on an RSN special like— a few months ago! You're the new Bobby Swift!" Tony turned to see his best friend, Grid rolling over. His bumper was curled into a grin.

Approaching forklifts gave the grey car a look that said they didn't care much for the legendary Bobby Swift. They, however, looked impressed by his Octane Gain decals and souvenir. They raised their brows in unison as Danny turned on his tires to face the new car.

"Hey. Thanks man," Swervez laughed as he scanned over the two young men. "Want an autograph?"

"YES!" Grid screamed as his eyes lit up in joy. Tony only opened his mouth, unable to get his own appraisal out before his fan-boy friend.

"Hey!" Danny turned with the short rev of his engine, "Can someone get me some ink for these guys!?" he asked his team as they searched for a utensil.

"Who cares about Storm when you've got Swervez?" Tony whispered to Grid.

The grey car gave his friend a smirk, "whatever you say. Everyone knows you wish you were him, though."

Storm sped by along the track, engine rumbling as he overlapped several racers. Grid's voice drowned out under it's volume.

"I don't, actually." Tony muttered.

Danny soon arrived back, his crew chief at his side, "Alright. The hood or fender? I ain't going anywhere else just to let you guys know." the race car said as the two boys grinned, forgetting their discussion.

"On the fender!" Grid exclaimed in excitement.

* * *

"He's already a legend, you know?"

Melise blinked her eyes several times trying to keep her mind peeling. She glanced from her vanity to the two crew members gawking at the dressing room television. She could hear the V8 engines and Bob Cutlass navigating viewers. They were watching the Racing Network.

The convertible kept her eyes away as she felt her heart ache. Why did so many cars have to love racing?

She made sure to arrive early for the photo op. But the last thing she expected was to be alone, waiting for the rest of the crew to arrive. She didn't want to admit it, but she fit into the new environment like a fifth tire. The crew was kind, inviting even, but Melise could feel her awkward presence falling in quickly.

"Okay, we've got about fourteen hours," Reyna busted into the room, commanding a small professional team of cars following in. Melise nearly jumped from her undercarriage as the BMW accelerated around the room, issuing different exercises to the cars.

"Since she is new, give her four sets," Reyna continued as the team listened, ignoring a startled Melise off to the side. "We need to see her at each angle so we know which is flattering."

The BMW turned to Melise, whom could only muster a nervous smile back, "You have a busy day ahead of you Miss Rūūnes." Melise could see her eyes scan her up and down quickly, assessing her appearance. Reyna didn't look pleased.

"We need to get her prepared," Reyna said aloud, gesturing the artist to approach Melise. "Why are you still wearing those bandages?" Reyna asked. Melise could sense some unrecognizable hostility in her tone.

"A doctor— they said it must stay on for a least a month until my headlight heals." Melise answered, her voice small.

"We need it off for the shoot," Reyna replied simply. "We'll be covering you in a better-looking coat of rose."

Melise stared on stunned, but began to oblige slowly and reluctantly. Her fender and cheek still felt raw sometimes, and she felt exposed with her bandage removed. Things were changing so quickly, and she wasn't sure she could keep up.

Pulling her tire through the cotton, the material soon came loose, and fell from her light to the ground. The warmth of it's touch no longer there and replaced with the breeze of cold air on her metal.

"Good," Reyna said, "You'll be taking fourteen hours to shoot, don't be stiff." she turned on her tires to the rest of the team, "Turo is counting on us, IGNTR is counting on us, let's move."

With that, the cars accelerated with efficiency to their blocks. The artist at Melise's side was joined by a forklift holding a can of spray paint. "So we're gonna get you ready, and then you'll do the shots, 'kay?" she stated in a sassy tone.

Without another word, Melise watched as her four tires were covered, and the forklift began painting over her bright peach color with a darker toned, bronze rose color that shimmered under the bright vanity light. She closed her eyes, praying for the best today.

In the dimmed room of the model floor, Reyna chatted away on her calls, eying the white space as she waited for the convertible to show.

Backstage, Melise felt her cab weigh down with new tires bolted in. Her face felt stiff and cakes with false lashes and heavy windshield makeup. Each blink took energy, and to keep her eyes as wide open as they once were was nearly non-existent.

"Ah, looking elegant and sparkling!" the forklift said, eying the convertible in her new get-up. Melise smiled at her awkwardly, unable to see for herself what she looked like. The feel was enough to say it was different.

"Chop, chop! Get her onto the runway, we need to get these shots ASAP!"

The vehicles rushed to the corridor luminated by dimmed flood lights. Melise could hardly see a thing in the glare of the runway spotlights, the audience was hardly visible as she rolled out onto the stage.

'I should runway roll,' Melise thought, nervousness peaking as she pushed the weight of the tires and moved along the path. In her head-on line of sight, Reyna was parked, evaluating the entire thing with keen eyes.

"Ah! You look so beautiful, like a Mayflower in the sunlight!" Reyna said, looking Melise up and down. The convertible's eyes were squinted as she tried to keep them open under the weight of heavy makeup and flashing photography.

"T-thank—"

"Much better than you did before! Darker paint, that's her coat!" Reyna continued. The cars beside, posh, and one wearing an IGNTR logo on his side, nodded and scribbled away. Melise stared on, awkward and out of place.

"Turn to the left," Reyna commanded. Melise accelerated and turned without question. The BMW appeared to be in deep thought as she looked the convertible up and down.

"Good, now to the right."

After a moment of silence and flickering, Melise straightened on her tires. She kept her shy eyes down as the small audience of staff watched on, whispering and scribbling more notes.

"Okay, everyone take ten minutes. I will handle the rest from here!" Reyna shouted. The other vehicles scattered back to their own matters, leaving Reyna to drive up onto the runway with a nervous and lonely Melise.

"You've never cat-cruised before have you?" she asked, her voice sounding friendlier again. Melise shook her hood.

"Never." she answered, her voice small.

"I can tell," the BMW continued. She lead Melise backstage, "We have a lot of work to do."

"Did I move wrong? Pose incorrectly?" Melise asked, unsure of how to answer the disappointment.

"Honesty, all of it. You're too stiff," Reyna explained, "you drive too cautiously, you don't smile, your axles are trembling, and you look goofy. We need to fix this now."

Melise didn't expect to feel hurt by the comment, but she didn't know how else to feel. She sucked in her bottom lip, lowering her eyes. Reyna turned to take a phone call.

While the BMW chatted away, Melise took a hefty cruise to the vanity once covered by vehicles preparing her, now empty to her sight. The car in the mirror stared back with a surprised look Melise didn't recognize. She was totally confused.

Her entire body was several shades darker in a pink color mixed with bronze, creating a rose-gold finish that shimmered and sparkled under light, matching the IGNTR feminine race brand tire logging her smaller frame down. The outer rim of the treads had a thin ring that matched her new tone of paint, giving her a distinct appearance that match the one and only, Jackson Storm. Her eyes were covered in deep eyeshadow that must've either been dark blue or purple if she could focus her eyes any longer than a few seconds. The dark long eyelashes with mainstream winged liner created a look so different, Melise wasn't so sure it was even her anymore.

"You have to roll like you earned it Mr. Turo chose you for this. That is you," Reyna rolled up to Melise's side. The convertible stared back at her own reflection with widened eyes and little emotion.

"I will try, I promise."


	25. Chapter 25: Still In The Slow Lane

_**Chapter 25: Still In The Slow Lane**_

A sensual mauve shade smoked her lids, accented by a horizon of long, dark lashes. Her eyes stayed low— submissive in nature to the world around her. Glossed lips remained pursed in a slight down-curve. Her smile was absent as she waited, listening to her newest role-model parked a few meters away.

Arriving merely minutes ago, the gold-colored Bentley stood tall on his axles, asserting his fashionable dominance in the room. Melise spent some minutes trying to pick up aspects of his persona from his appearance after he took his free time to keep his distance from her, despite his very arrival being for her. Reyna was no longer a normal in the studio. Her groomed and shiny bumper was back in the comfy confines of her office, ready to assist Mister Turo. The CEO had arranged for this new car to be her mentor, her trainer... her friend.

Before Melise could prepare her thoughts, the Bentley quickly made his way to her, his front blank expressioned as he stared Melise over. His hazel eyes stopped on her front, gazing at her though the mirror.

"You're Miss R? Melise?" his mature, and gravel voice came.

She blinked her heavy eyes, nodding.

"Jonah-Dawn. Just call me Jonah." he said, giving her a questionable smile. "Word around here is that you're stiffer than a stop sign."

"How do I fix this?" Melise asked, catching Jonah off-guard. Her expression remained neutral as his extrepolation seemingly went over her hood.

He reversed towards the cat-cruise entrance. "Let's see how bad it is first."

Melise felt the surge of coolant through her circuits as she realized she would have to embarrass herself yet again. The cat-cruise was one of the last places she felt confident.

Her fancy tires crushed natural elements along the floor as she rolled with all her strength towards the cruise way. The quiet crunches underneath her hefty promo tires annoyed her more than she ever thought they could. Her expression was as calm as an empty raceway as she looked beyond the looming spectators ready to pick and pry at her flaws once again, this time sure to find more.

Once the upbeat tunes began to play, Melise breathed a sigh, biting her bottom lip as she put on a face of determination. Her wheels donning the IGNTR neon ring pulled her frail frame along the cruise-way as she presented her expressionless elegance.

Melise's doe eyes scanned the surrounding in its usual haze under the high beamed spotlights. She could only see a few feet in front of her as if she were navigating in fog, it made the fear of slipping to close to call.

"Ah, she is beautiful in those rims," Melise could hear among the unison chatter and flickering.

"They even match her coat of polish!" another spectator mused.

"STOP!" Jonah shouted suddenly. Melise braked, whilst the music paused abruptly, leaving a silence in the spacious studio.

"That was terrible." Jonah continued, making his way up the stage. "You rolled like a dirty race car. Are you a dirty race car!?"

Melise felt a ping in her system. Her fenders become rosier as Jonah waited for her answer.

"No..."

"No, you are NOT a dirty race car, and THIS," his tire emphasized the room, "is not a dirty race track!"

"We need to get some serious work done. Have some pride when you roll." Jonah accelerated past her to the beginning of the cruise-way. Melise hung her hood in shame as she watched from heavy eyes.

"You cruise with elegance, indifference and confidence." The gold Bentley rolled across the way with an expressionless face, higher suspension, and ignorance of the cars around him, braking quickly at the edge of the way, and leaning his cab away from the cameras to show off his rims.

"THAT is how you model. Not... THAT," he pointed his tires at Melise in accusation. The convertible said nothing, but kept her expression determined and listening.

"From the top," Jonah shouted, shooing a confused Melise back to the front of the cruise-way.

"We are going to get this right even if I run out of gas!"

Melise kept her composure, her eyes struggling to keep open with the weight of makeup upon makeup. Her axles were getting sore, but she ignored the heavy tires and pushed along. If this was her opportunity, she was going to give her best try.

The music was loud when it played again, causing the small crowd to jump. The volume didn't startle Melise, her circuits were still reeling from her trainer's harsh words of advice.

With a deep breath, Melise stood tall on her axles, a blank expression with half-closed lids and gentle lips. She rolled forward, onto the cruise-way, this time, a different car than she was before.

Passing by, Melise could see the atmosphere around her change, the cars saw a different girl too. Melise paid little attention to them— easier said than done, as Jonah-Dawn instructed. She was the center of attention, like a fancy car on the boulevard... like a racer revving his engine to his fans.

That was it, that was her moment. Melise could feel the realization bursting into her engine. Abruptly, she braked, her dry expression resorting back to its usual starry eyed stare.

This was not a cruise-way, it was a speedway. The spectators were racing fans instead of fashion gurus. The loud trance music— V8 engines zipping by the pit lane. Melise was an oil runner again, and she was cool, calm and collected. Just go with the flow.

And Jonah-Dawn's front glowed with amazement. His reproachful expression of impatience was replaced with a wide white smile that shimmered with his gold paint. Seeing her cab relax in the atmosphere of crazed photographers— the deep rose paintjob accenting her newfound elegance over the silly, cutesy aura she carried around her. But Jonah's eyes were focussed on one key feature— something he had never thought would be captivating, it was the sudden sprought of innocence shining naturally from her eyes.

"That is greatness!" he exclaimed. Melise turned, facing Jonah head-on. Her blank stare soon became a shy smile to the ground.

The team crowded around to acknowledge the shots and coordination through a small digital display, analyzing Melise's every move, crank and brake. Ignoring the convertible on stage, Melise reversed slowly till she felt the curtain of backstage brush against her bumper, over her roof and hood till she was concealed in solitary. They seemed satisfied, her work was done.

Melise's eyes trained on her foreign reflection in the mirror. Her eyes widened in surprise to see large splotches of peachy paint, vibrant and youthful, peeking through the smeared rose-gold paint job given to her. She stared back, silent and calculating as she caught sight of a familiar grey autograph on her right fender.

The domineering tone of Mister Jonah-Dawn arriving in the room, gave Melise little time to react.

"The shots were great, you were great, elegant and dole, just the way I like my models!" He mused, extrapolating his words with relaxed closed lids. "IGNTR will be pleased to have—"

Melise presented him with a gentle and nervous smile. She was almost certain Jonah was going to be upset to see her paint smudged, her makeup smeared. His expression remained in awe.

"Were you trying to wipe away your beauty?" He asked, genuine confusion in his tone. Melise's expression became innocent perplexed to the strange comment.

"No, I was just—" she began, reversing on the heavy tires. Her words seemed to trail off as she was left in utter confusion.

"This paint," Jonah began, staring her up and down incredulously, "This paint was chosen by us here at Element Sleek Rims for you! It's your new image, a better version of Miss Ruunes!" his tone echoed in confines of the space.

Melise could feel embarrassment heating up her hood. She briefly glanced at the girl in the mirror as the Bentley continued his rambling. Her peachy paint that once shone brightly in the pitlane as she would smile, surrounded by oil and asphalt— covered in ugly splotches of paint that made her feel like a discount Motorama girl.

"And what is that? Did you get your paint chipped away!?" Jonah accused, pointing his tire at her right fender. Melise, bit her bottom lip, using her tire to wipe away the rest of the dark paint, revealing her nearly forgotten prized possession.

"It's a signature, from Jackson Storm," a sweet and gentle smile slowly crossed her lips as she just remembered it, all this time, hidden away from her sight, "when I was an—"

"Who!?" Jonah's grille crinkled in indifference and annoyance at her sudden change of emotion. "You need to focus on getting even better, and stop smudging your paint! It's unprofessional!"

Melise closed her eyes as his voice seemed to shake the room. Despite her fear, she didn't feel a tear weld up in her eyes. When she opened them, she saw her mentor being calmed down by another crew member.

"I need someone to bring me coolant!" Jonah hollered, dismissing his team-member's hushing.

Melise watched as Jonah was escorted out of the studio as his gold paint shimmered under the glare of flood lights. The small audience outside had to be stunned based on their silence. Melise was glad she was at least unseen by them. She was alone again, and that feeling was becoming too comfortable in this studio.

Her heart was thumping rapidly as she took a deep breath, sinking on her axles to the cold ground. Melise was exhausted, sticky, and unsure of what time of day it was.

He told her to 'Stay Peachy'. She read his print under her headlight. The memory came back like it was only yesterday when she was under a gazebo outside of the fancy Wheelsworth Inn.

Never in her life did she think he would actually follow her. He was quick— no surprise, and— Melise couldn't believe she was saying it, but charming.

Jackson Storm wasn't a prince-charming kind of car, or what many might say prince charming was. He had an image to maintain amongst the media following him. Maybe she was seeing things differently even when he gave her his time yet again at the airport... she had to thank him somehow that time around. But he didn't have to be kind that night in the garden. He didn't have to give her his time, he didn't have to tell her 'Stay Peachy'.

There was no doubt he had a 'ominous' atmosphere about him. Melise could remember her first days cruising with Shannon as she taped coupons to the IGNTR logo, and the trailer itself when it arrived. No one seemed to take Jackson seriously, and Melise on the other hand, went out of her way to give him a warm welcome. His sleek livery black paint decaled with 2.0 and deep blue neon was like a brand new game plan to the entirety of racing. When his engine revved, and his concentrated grey eyes looked at her, she felt smaller. His voice was confident and cool, like a guy who knew his way. Articulate and... handsome.

Melise bit her bottom lip. She couldn't believe what her thoughts were telling her.

It was one thing to watch him on the track, and another to have him right in front of her. Seeing the almighty racer her grandfather and others glorified with his large racing tires, and stoic stare looking her over.

He wasn't scary, just very bold and resilient appearing. When he spoke to her, he kept the same reserved cool nature he had with the Racing Network's meddling cameras. The calm way he spoke, like the entire world was boring, but she was somehow a tree of fruits in it. It warmed her engine more than she realized.

She couldn't understand him. Didn't a race car like him have more important things to do than sign the fender of a Honda? Or even talk to her... no one ever really talked to her.

Her glossy eyes took in the reality around her. She would never see Jackson again. Not in his fame growing world. After what she caused, his embarrassment and her headlight, she was lucky to even get the chance to apologize.

Maybe everyone else didn't see it, but he seemed lost, she knew that feeling all too well... it lead her right to where she was now, covered in a dark paintjob that took away her true carefree nature. He didn't need anyone to distract him now, they all told her so.

Melise was just glad she got the chance to nuzzle the guy who was willing to share his time with her, to give her words of advice in a simple autograph, even if it meant missing his own championship party. Jackson Storm wasn't a bad guy...

A steady and faint tapping coated the floor beside her. Melise opened her eyes to a watery blur. She hadn't realized her emotions got the best of her again as tears streamed down her hood and fenders, dripping on the floor and washing away more paint.

She glanced at the heavy tires resembling Storm's in the mirror. The weight of them made her axles numb.

How would he feel about all of this? A model for IGNTR's newest tires? Invading his life again? She put herself in reverse and pulled out of the studio building, into the darkness of night.

Melise was lost, digging for content wherever she went, and if fate gave her this opportunity, she was going to try her best. Her happiness mattered just like his wins did. She just wasn't so sure this was worth the grief.

Once her headlights flickered on, she merged to the far-right lane, moving slow and steadily home.


	26. Chapter 26: IGNTR's On A Roll

**_Chapter 26: IGNTR's On a Roll_**

The fading away white noise of a Cessna flying in the distance caused her eyes to flutter open.

Her bedroom was warm and fuzzy, an unusual comfort she knew was brought about on a day off. It's interior sky-blue wallpaper kept the atmosphere exuberant and friendly true to her nature.

Days like this, when the sunight scattered through the sides of the dimming curtains created a cabana-like shading that summoned some form of nostalgia she could remember all too well.

Copper Canyon. The speedway and the hotel. It was like the first morning of oil-running, the first day to see the race cars speed. Melise's engine warmed up from the thought.

She looked up and down at her reflection, seeing her mirrors looked perkier than ever before. Headlights seemingly glowed in blushy beauty surrounded by a warm bright peach fibreglass. Her eyes were puffy from sleeping peacefully through the night, and her shocks were anything but stiff. It was like waking up cured of a sickness, or finally being free.

It felt amazing.

When Melise finally arrived down the corridor towards the kitchen, her lips curled into a warm smile as her grandfather idled quietly beside the radio, snoozing away as 80's tunes played faintly.

He was in his natural paint, a light blue color with black coker tires. No more off-black paint with glowing blue. Just the friendly Honda Z many knew him as.

Melise inched forward on her treads, careful not to stir him. Glancing towards the rounded dinner table, there was no breakfast for him, and she would gladly prepare his favorite hotcakes and omelettes.

"H-uhm..." she turned to face her grandfather as he opened his eyes to the smell of sizzling eggs. "ah, good morning, Wynter."

Blush rose to her cheeks as she heard the nickname of her childhood again. "G'morning, Grandpa. Did you sleep well?"

"Sleep?" he questioned, "I was asleep?"

Melise grinned, amused, "Yes, you were. Good morning!" her voice rose an octave, accenting a sing-song tone.

He chuckled as she turned back to the stovetop, "Mom's at the cafe, she really danced her way out of the house earlier."

The convertible giggled sweetly, "That's so awesome. She _actually_ danced?"

"Yup," he said, grinning from the memory. "She was as happy as you are right now."

Melise's smile remained as she remembered it was her first day off from working with Element Sleek Rims. The thought of going back to cold studio wearing uncomfortable merchandise almost made the happy atmosphere fade. Nearly. She hummed a few minutes longer as she finished off the last of the batter in the saucer.

"Not working today?" he asked as he stared delightfully down on his pancakes and eggs. Melise pushed a warm quart of caffeinated oil towards him.

"No, I finally have a day off." She answered, parking herself across from him with her own breakfast. "I think it was six days straight of work."

"And fourteen hours each," her grandfather replied. Melise's eyes widened at the realization. It must've been why she slept so soundly last night.

There was a brief silence as he sipped his warm oil, and Melise thought through the days she missed. The mornings serving her family breakfast, taking a cruise around the beautiful rural landscape, or spending time at the cafe.

"Melise," she looked over the table to meet his caring eyes. "I know you don't like this new job of yours."

She hung her hood down, drinking her tea, "Yes, Grandpa. You're right." she murmured.

"Let's talk about that."

* * *

Gale thumped her tire impatiently against the asphalt of the stadium lot. Buy N' Large must've cashed in a hefty profit from the sizeable stadium. The bright red and blue colors made it seem fun, festive even to onlookers.

She glanced back to the trailer, watching the forklifts inspect, before the back right tire suddenly deflated, hatching the haul awkwardly to one side. A hefty sigh escaped her mouth. Routine checks would be starting over now with the new problem.

"Good morning, Gale," Ray approached, watching the trailer's flat tire. "Everything's in good condition?"

"Oh yeah," Gale smiled. "The tire just went flat. That's all."

He stared a minute longer in concern before speaking, "Well, all is set for his off-week."

"Oh gosh, I can finally get my paint and rims polished," Gale replied gleefully as she outstretched her tire, studying the grime and dried mud spects engraved inside her rims. The shine of the sleek black color seeped in only faintly behind minor wear and tear.

Ray's eyes searched the setting, "Where's Storm? I'd figure he would be ready to bolt out of here when he got the chance."

Gale shrugged her tires as Ray turned to her, "I haven't seen him since yesterday. I thought he was sleeping in."

"It's always either the simulator or he's in his trailer. There never seems to be an in between with him." Ray sighed, "I checked his suite, he's not there. I checked the simulator facilty— he's not there either."

"Not in the trailer either," Gale replied, thinking over his whereabouts, "hey, maybe Jack is with some fans!" she smiled, at the image of Storm flashing his smile with common cars.

"The odds of that are even lower," Ray replied as he watched three cars passing by from the back bay of the motel. Their fenders were autographed in grey ink. He drove off, eyes wandering and navigating his journey.

Shaded roofing kept the scorching sunlight at bay as Ray passed underneath each arch alongside the motel. The further he travelled to the back of the building, the less cars he encountered.

It didn't surprise Ray to see a gardened off pathway. This motel was known for it's valley-like scenery of catering. The field was large and cut to perfection. In it's center, the 'Buy N' Large' logo tattoed the grass like a college football team. Trees lined the edges, and if Ray could make out the figure of a livery black car in the distance, he could be precise that it was Jackson.

 _'In a field? Relaxing?_ ' Ray pondered the thought a moment longer as he arrived next to the tree Jackson had parked himself under. The race car's eyes remained closed as the noise of compacted soil crumpling under the pick-up truck's tires neared.

"If you want your fender signed, that's alright with me. Nowhere else." Jackson's candid statement cut the air.

"It's me, Storm," Ray answered, simply. Jackson opened his eyes half-way, looking over his crew chief before closing them again.

"Morning," he replied.

"Trailer's nearly ready," Ray said, looking about the scenery, "Off-week is here now Jackson."

"That's why I'm starting early," he stated, blinking slowly.

Ray lined himself up beside Storm, "Spending it being lazy?"

"Why not? I've got ten wins under my roof."

Ray watched him flex out his axles, stretching them briefly before relaxing his chassis into the short cut grass. The chief wouldn't admit it to Jackson, but relaxing quietly in a field seemed beyond him.

Some young fans passed by, awe in their eyes and whispering as they saw the IGNTR racer meters from them. Ray turned to look at them, and they scurried away.

"For good measure, RSN, and cheeky fans are not included." Jackson remarked, ignoring the gawking cars.

"Look, spend the week how you like," Ray cut-in, "Just remember you have a streak going, and IGNTR is going to expect your appearance at their next venues if you intend on keeping your career."

"Yeah... " his voice was monotone, while his eyes were open, focussing on two elderly cars, one white, and the other a bland off-peach color cruising along the trees in the distance of the field.

Ray watched his eyes follow the pair until they were out of sight inside the motel. Storm's expression remained it's usual calm and collected manner.

"Listen, we— the pit crew, Gale, and IGNTR— we're proud of you Jackson." Ray said, gauging his racer's reaction. "You've won more races than any rookie I've trained."

Storm's eyes focussed on Ray, listening.

"Many cars will dwell on your mistakes and forget all your victories for a single hiccup, but all that matters is making the most of yourself on, and off the track."

Ray could see Jackson's eyes scanning the area as he processed the speech. He wasn't much of the sensitive type, but Ray knew all too well that he was still a loner in the racing world.

The pick-up's engine hummed as he reversed from the field.

"And Jack," Ray suddenly spoke again, He could see Storm sraighten himself slightly, "I'm proud of you, now make the other guys too."

Jackson could hear his crew chief's engine fading away as he began relaxing again. His fenders curled into a half-smile as he exhaled, turning his eyes towards two veteran racers passing by in his line of sight.

"That Storm? No kidding, it is!" Jackson hardly recognized the two racers that taunted him during his first race and win of the season. His eyes scanned over them as if they were no more important than a common coupe.

"Hey, man, you're wicked fast on that track!"

A wholehearted laugh from Storm filled their ego, "Thanks," he replied, knowing his worth was far from their own retirement.

The duo watched as he revved his engine, the ground vibrating lightly under their wheels. He drove on, leaving them to their merits of watching him. The usual.

* * *

"Remember when you were hired by the Piston Cup a month ago? You know how excited and happy you looked?"

Melise nibbled on a piece of her omelette as he continued, her eyes basted an innocent glow her grandfather knew all too well. She was hearing and listening.

"I was," she answered, a somber tone catching up in her voice, "I didn't even think much about anything else."

Her eyes found themselves wandering the room, watching the sunlight stream through the curtains, the windows, the doorway leading to the backyard. The warm rays on her hubcaps, but the missing excitement of Shannon's giggles, the clear skies, but no race to witness. A warm quart of oil, but no task to serve. An elegant homely structure, but no interesting racer to run into...

She shook the thought away, blinking her lids rapidly. That was then, this is now.

"I know it can be... _difficult_ , finding your place in this world," her grandfather continued, "but if there's one thing you've got, Melise, that's a shred of determination... "

Her eyes were starry as she looked at him, thinking over the long days in the hot sun, the taunts from her fellow employees. She even missed them. But she persevered through much of it, even an injury. She didn't beg, falter, or brake. She did her job, and had fun doing it. If the Series regarded her as troublesome for Storm's image, that was their loss. His loss. Her own for giving up on all of it.

Mister Turo saw something in her, even when she was patched up with gauze.

IGNTR even found some value, as ironic as life was headed.

Why give up? Because of some rather ugly mauve paint? Because of a strict mentor? Because of long hours?

It wasn't like she hadn't done it before.

The vibration and chiming of her quirky ringtone caused her axles to stiffen. It was a private number she could easily guess the owner of.

"How's my favorite model doing today?" Mister Turo's voice came in, chipper all around. Her grandfather listened intently to the conversation.

"Hi there... Eddie, I'm great today." Melise answered, a smile across her fenders. "Is everything alright?"

"Is everything alright? Are you kidding!?" Mr. Turo sparked in glee, "Everything is just spectacular!"

Melise exchanged a look of confusion to her grandfather's smile.

Before she could ask, he continued, "I had Reyna email your shots to IGNTR last night. They absolutely love them!"

"Oh... _really!?_ " the convertible's voice went up a questioning octave.

"They say that you're very beautiful, and angel-like. I couldn't agree more!"

IGNTR really found her that irresistible? She was just a convertible. Wasn't Storm better for the job? Her thoughts raced with amazement.

"In the end, it paid off," The CEO continued, "I want to see you first thing tomorrow morning, I've got a surprise for you, Hun."

The call ended, as her Grandfather congratulated a stunned Melise, "What did I tell 'ya, your hard work always pays off."

"I wonder what the surprise is..." Melise said, lost in thought.

"Maybe a yearly supply of fancy tires— or they're upgrading you to a supermodel in California." her grandfather mused.

She smiled, "Why don't we celebrate with more pancakes?"

* * *

By the time the mid morning arrived, Ray had done his head-count for the fifth time. Gale would probably call it 'a waste of time' or 'somewhat over the top', but the chief knew what he was doing. He fell into a routine of maintenance as the supervisor of team 2.0, certain of himself, Ray knew no-one else could handle a racer like Jackson Storm.

He idled himself under the shade of a cabana as Gale stared down her own reflection in the trailer's black smooth exterior, picking out minor flaws that were likely imagined. Quincy and Leon were both parked nearby with the rest of Jackson's pitties, analyzing his flawless simulation data with impressive eyes.

Ray instructed that no one was to leave until Jackson arrived with the A-OK to set off. Now, Ray wished he kept that particular honor for himself, as he had his team waiting for some time.

'He can't still be in that field... no way.' Ray thought, watching Gale shift her weight, posing with her lips puckered for her reflection. 'Next time, he's back on our schedule, not his own.'

His eyes turned as Gale's front lit up in excitement, turning to face the arriving car behind her.

"Hey team," Jackson said, scanning his eyes around as he passed, parking himself next to the trailer's door.

His pitties greeted him in unison as Gale smiled.

His tire pushed the hatch button, and the ramp began rolling down, "All's good?" Storm asked Ray, noting his slightly nettled expression. "Hey, I'll buy you a late coffee, how's that sound, Gus?"

Ray sighed, watching the crew pack up and prepare for departure. All the other teams left nearly two hours ago. Jackson was on break as of now, but that didn't mean slacking off was a new resort. Paperwork and simulator maintenance was necessary after each race. Time was ticking.

"That's fine, Jackson." He replied, heading towards the trailer as Storm reversed with top precision inside..

"So... where am I headed to?" Gale asked adjusting her mirrors to face Ray, lined up behind the trailer in her tow.

"IGNTR. The facility." Jackson chimed in.

"Aw, I was hoping you'd say a beach house in Florida," Gale pouted as Jackson's mouth curled into a smile she couldn't see.

"We'll be there soon enough," Ray answered, "Drive safe. And Jackson," the racer's eyes turned his crew chief in front of him.

"Take it easy."

Ray was glad enough for the indistinct look on Jackson's hood to change into his usual cool state of expression.

He knew exactly what his chief meant, even if he said nothing.

Ray watched her leave the lot for the numerous time. If he wasn't there, Gale was, thankfully. Things were easier with Jackson, he kept to his own naturally, but there was still a level of uncertainty Ray was unsure of. Interacting with fans was one thing, they'd let him run them over like a red carpet, but other racers was another story the chief wasn't sure Jackson was ready for.

He was full of surprises sometimes.

"So... Ray left some stuff from the sponsors and other stuff like juice in your trailer," Gale's voice echoed inside the trailer's speaker system.

"I noticed," Jackson said, eyeballing the few cans of Liquid Adrenaline along the trailer's wall. If IGNTR was only sending him a few cans now, they must've sold hundreds. A large envelope caught his attention jammed between the grasp of two quarts.

Pulling it loose, the familiar deep blue color told him it was the same old news from IGNTR. Thanks to the glorious Jackson Storm, another win, another thousand of grand for the energy drink.

Storm pulled it open, never turning away the chance to hear more praise. The contents spilled in front of his bumper, and the racer's engine revved once as he reversed to see the laminated, pristine texture sitting on his axle.

The logo didn't look to familar. It was a curvy, exaggerated 'E' with a golden ring orbiting it. His eyes scanned down the strange cover to the image plastered on it, a darkened backlight, with a dark purple or even pink under the dim lighting of his trailer— model. She had a distant look, like a tractor in the headights, but expectant of the nature around her. Her lids must've been smudged with an even darker color, as odious as it could get.

His eyes scanned over the vehicle, her frame was small, and her lips were an annoying pout amplified by software or make-up. Her big brown eyes told a story he had read before, and his eyes narrowed.

All the glory, all the sales, all the wins... HIS wins, for this.

He took his eyes off the poster, ignoring the slogan underneath it.

There was a letter from IGNTR underneath, static clung to the professional poster's material.

His mind felt empty or even muddled as his grey eyes scanned over the sentences.

'As forward with our ongoing mission to begin our sales through our new partner Element Sleek Rims, we give our wholehearted gratitude to you, Mister Storm, for your continued success.'

They had to be joking. Selling rims? He took another begrudging glance at the poster of Peaches, seeing a knock-off glowing pink rim that tried to match his own. Everything in the photo looked wrong, especially her.

Jackson didn't bother. He pushed the sheets back where they were found. His mouth twisted into a straight line, and his eyes blinked to his usual calm disposition.

He was not expecting this.


	27. Chapter 27: Lone Racer

_**Author's Note: Thank you for the kind reviews, I'm still reading through your fanfictions when I can! **_

_**Melise's is going through a lot of abandoned roads full of contradictions and some potholes. She's seemingly in constant confliction, whether it's because of her own life, being and oil runner, or dreaming about Jackson Storm. Ahh can't she just make up her mind already!?**_

* * *

To make it to the big leagues, you had to train, no doubt. Whether it was revving the engine to a fiery release of exhaust, or spinning out on turn two, there was strict effort, and a huge competition to tailgate with it.

Annually, sponsors forked out promising race cars by the dozens, but since the introductions of racing simulators, the quantities dropped staggeringly. A simulator was a top-notch instrument— more promising than a brand new speedometer. Allowing for free movement of the cabin, racers could navigate the track with paved ease, making the user's ability to move confidently increase. The resource yielded numbers sponsors could only dream of, two-hundred-ten miles per hour with little as a tire slip to worry a technician. The values spoke, revving louder than a stadium of racing fans.

The three trainees focussed diligently on the prospect in front of them, a silver Piston Cup replica mounted in front of the chief.

"Sir?"

Ray's eyes met the eager amber stare of the car on treadmill #1 his tires began to stall pulling him further away down the conveyor, "Call me, Chief, son."

"Chief," he breathed through quick pants. His engine reved as he fought the force of the exercise machine, catching up to the shared speed of his fellow trainees.

"Having trouble keeping up?"

"No!"

"Need to slow down?"

"No, Chief!"

Ray watched him perk up on his axles, his cheeks puffed as his engine caught up with him. The young racer's treads were soon on the floor as he panted.

"Are you alright, son?" Ray looked him over once, seeing no visible damage.

"I'm good, Chief... just a little tired."

Ray raised a lid, "wasn't it you who said, 'I want to be better than Storm'?"

The racer's gritted his teeth, keeping his eyes at bay, leaving Ray's question unanswered. The chief moved in closer, keeping a positive tone in his voice.

"Take five, then show me you can get up to two o' seven miles." Ray watched him reverse his way to the nearest corridor and vanish down the hall. His eyes turned back to his trainees who were watching and chatting away. They jumped and began speeding again once his coach-voice bellowed in.

"Get moving! Kick it up to two o' seven. You all want to be better than Jackson, show me."

The chief watched their speeds measured on a display above, seeing a steady maintain of two-hundred and three miles per hour. When the numbers stayed consistent, his eyes wandered to the noise vibrating his treads.

IGNTR wasn't one to give up offers or ideas for success. The company was still growing, and the facility was just one of their newest toys.

The one thing Ray was at wits end with, was the commotion of a party on the facility's large courtyard. The recent streak of wins was a likely celebration Ray was certain Jackson was hardly attending. Staff and technicians alike bobbed in excitement to the bass of subwoofers and intricate lights, eagerly awaiting Storm's arrival despite his trailer being firmly parked out back— the race car himself, missing in action from his own party.

Once break time arrived, the chief peered his eyes through the madness outside, seeing Quincy and Leon among the patrons, Gale lip-syncing along to the tunes— no Jackson Storm.

He sighed deeply, pulling himself out of the training ground, down the hallway. Ray could have felt a sense of pride in his racer if he announced that the venues and hosted events were too humble of IGNTR, but Jackson's excuse was useless.

"I don't need these kinds of things," he'd say, watching over the vehicles enjoying themselves.

'Need' be damned, it was his party, and he was going to at least say 'Hello' to his extended hard-working team.

The last car Ray expected to meet was the CEO of the franchise. A smile spread across the maroon car's grille as he saw the chief.

"Not attending our celebration, Reverham?" he asked, glancing his eyes briefly behind the pick-up truck.

"Not when there's cars to train," Ray answered, "maybe later."

"Ah, the trainees," his maroon paint glimmered in a glare of artificial light, "I take that they are all well?"

Ray chuckled, "All fine, RPM's are average and rising very slowly."

He nodded at the chief's statement, thinking through the words with a squint. If Ray guess anything in his mind correctly, they were no luck against Jackson's statistics.

"I'll look further into it," he answered, "But let's talk about Jackson Storm."

Ray could hear himself mentally sighing, if he could guess the next question...

"Where our talented race car?" the CEO asked, his eyes trailed down the hall behind the chief.

"I'm looking for him, too," Ray answered, "Odds are that he's relaxing around"

"Reverham, you've been here for the last two hours, why don't you lounge? "

The pick-up truck began rolling forward, "As his chief, I need to see that he's fine."

"Fair enough," the entrepreneur replied, "but while he's not with you, let's talk about his reception."

Ray braked, "His reception?"

The maroon business car nodded his hood once, "Yes. I know that he can be difficult, I remember receiving him a year ago."

Ray wasn't sure where this was going, and if Jackson's reputation had to be defended he wasn't sure he could do the job efficiently.

"His sportsmanship is fairly dull, I'd assume he's still working on his representation of our industry," the maroon car's voice was confident and to-the-point.

"I would applaud you on ignoring his stale behaviour over his racing performance, but a series of offers have rallied in for our star racer, and sending him off with a chip o his headlight is far from my interests."

"Offers, huh?"

Ray glanced to the familiar mature voice, seeing Jackson pulling up behind him through his rear-mirrors. The racer's expression was reproachful and full of tension.

"Like the offer to sellout for tires?"

The maroon CEO's eyes widened slightly as he heard the race car's words.

Ray glanced between the two, "What is this about?"

His grey eyes turned to the chief, "Thirty percent of my winnings for rim sales!"

"Rim sales?" Ray held his brakes, confused as Storm continued his confrontation.

"Thirty percent! For fancy rims!? This has to be a joke."

The CEO's eyes scanned the hall quickly as he lowered on his suspension, "We'll discuss this in my office, " he muttered.

Ray watched Jackson follow him with a stern expression, one that meant business. His engine accelerated as he followed the two. Whatever Jackson was upset about was serious.

The CEO parked himself behind a neatly tidied desk, his attention on Jackson's glare as Ray closed the door behind them.

"IGNTR is more than Liquid Adrenaline, Mister Storm." he said simply.

Jackson's expression remained consistently straight.

"As a young corporation we are seeking to expand our grasp to our fans,"

"You mean MY fans?" Jackson retorted.

"Rims are the next best way, especially with the simulator gaming," he continued through Storm's ignored comment.

"Now wait just a minute," Ray interrupted, "IGNTR is selling tires and rims?"

"Precisely," the business car said with a grin.

"Not just any," Jackson said, holding his glare, "the same design on my racing rims."

"Our partners found the design favorable to bring racing to fans at home."

"WITHOUT MENTIONING A THING ABOUT IT TO ME, THE GUY PAYING FOR IT!" Jackson barked.

"Calm down," Ray bumped his tire to Storm's side, "With all due respect, Sir, Jackson is building your profits, why wasn't he notified?"

The maroon business car's expression straightened, "I concluded that he is too busy for this merchandising."

"Again! Without asking!" Jackson's voice rose, "You know, I was expecting something like a new flavor, maybe another simulator, but selling out?"

"This discussion will go on forever, be prideful," The CEO spoke, "Celebrate, drink a gasohol if you like, you earned it."

"So we're going to forget about my earning being sold to— what was it? Element Sleek Rims? And using some prissy little convertible to market it?"

Ray pulled himself around, keeping a wall between the two cars, "Storm!"

"Incidents involving our racer are taken seriously for IGNTR's reputation, I found it to be an acceptable apology. We will be hosting a large VIP venue in a few days, make sure your calendar is open Mister Storm."

Jackson reversed keeping space between himself and Ray. His eyes studied the words before the boss spoke again, "Don't let that happen again, otherwise, be grateful for what we have done."

With his statement made, the CEO made his way out of the office, leaving the two alone. Ray watched as Jackson exhaled once.

"You still need to maintain your temper," Ray said, watching Jackson's eyes scan aimlessly around the room as his front remained a mix of indifference and weary.

"Yeah," he replied, "I'm in control, Ray. You've seen how I handle Chick Hicks' banter."

"Look, this is all up to IGNTR, if they want to sell rims and adrenaline, they can with the profits, you've still got your bank account."

Storm's eyes scanned to his chief, "I'm out of here." His engine revved, causing materials on the table to spill over. Before Ray could bid farewell, his racer was down the hall.

He had a feeling he wasn't going to hear the last of this. Wrongful so, Ray knew Jackson's concern was justified, he just wasn't so sure the race car would let it go. Even so, to a degree his anger was overflowing in seeming overreaction. Ray hadn't witnessed any marketing for tires yet, but Jackson had the whole picture already.

Ray was certain there must be more than meets the eye, but let it be. If Jackson was as mature as he had seen the young racer to be, he would let this fade away in time.

* * *

The rhythm of subwoofers were still vibrating the structure as nightfall hit. Some time around eight, a spotlight panned across the dark sky from the courtyard.

Jackson could hear a series of synchronized singing from patrons and staff alike outside. Keeping his room darkened, his treads vibrated steadily along the private and peaceful lounge room's floor as the noise continued into the night. His mouth tugged into a straight line as he watched what nonsense he could see from the second storey tinted windows.

When his private simulator chimed twice, indicating it had loaded and prepared his personal settings, the race car drove swiftly into it's grasp, wasting little time accelerating past virtual cars. Within minutes his speed found itself steadily balanced between 202 and 206 miles per hour.

He couldn't call it betrayal, she didn't belong to him, or anyone for that matter. They chose Melise, the convertible with no association with racing to merchandise IGNTR tires. Of all the race cars— Jackson Storm himself, they chose the damn adult car that still resembled a high schooler.

He could feel the simulator pushing back, his engine roared once, defeating its gravity.

Yeah, she looked crazy wearing all that makeup on her hood and windshield. Like one of those ridiculous trends that begged for acceptance. Soon enough, she'd be wearing high hover tires that push her bumper out for the world to see. Maybe he was wrong, maybe she actually knew better than to give up being weird to be original, but these companies meant business. If this 'world-reowned' tire company wanted her, she must have been a sight for sore headlights, Jackson couldn't agree more, cars like her were one of a kind.

That didn't matter, she was always at the center, a bigger pest than McQueen ever was.

The press invading his privacy during his rookie week, because of her refusing to hide in his trailer.

The Series choosing to get rid of her because she was becoming a distraction. Admitedly, Jackson found her departure to be cowardice. Even if he told her she was in the way, he expected a punch in the bumper himself— she was too geniune and submissive— he wasn't sure if it made his engine warmer in chivalrous homage or boiling hot in annoyance

The headlight, yeah, maybe leaving was best for her. But becoming a model for his stuff was far from okay.

Jackson could feel the simulator fighting him again. At this point, he wasn't so sure the machine was letting up or fighting back, he revved his engine and sped past the inclines.

It felt good. Seeing the clear track ahead was nohing new, but it was something good. His tires rolled rapidly with precise ease as the simulator's screen flickered, his grey eyes quickly turning to the display beside, seeing his speed.

214 miles per hour, a new record. A big one.

If Jackson was certain, the screen could've been incorrect. The room was dark as it was, and the power was suddenly tripping, causing the information to glitch.

It was all too easy, Jackson could hear the wind whistling through his axles as the conveyor sped at breakneck speed underneath him. There was no way the simulator was lying, he was fast. His eyes caught the digits just as the simulator sung it's record breaking tune, 214mph.

Then, it was over. the system shut down, the room became black, and Jackson let his tires slow down in the virtual training machine's hold. His hood wore a look of pleasure as peace and quiet erupted through the facility. The subwoofers were dead in the outage.

The data wasn't saved, his speed didn't exist until he could show it.

Storm watched as the gathers outside moved around aimlessly. Their chatter was mostly muffled, nothing important anyway.

All Jackson could hear, was the soft tone of Peaches cheering for him. He could listen to that voice all season long.


	28. Chapter 28: Merge to The Express Lane

He could feel her eyes glaze over him as he accelerated from the elevator to the skyline floor— his floor. He was tense and weary, the horrid sound of his wife's screeching complaints still reverbing through his cab.

Without looking, he breathed a sigh through his teeth, "I said seeing you makes my morning greater, right?"

Reyna's eyes scanned over Edison Turo, she smirked.

"You always do, honey. Stressed out again today?"

She watched him approach, her circuits getting warmer as her sensual stare remained locked.

"Anything to get by the damn day," he whispered, nuzzling her fender and pressing gentle kisses to her side.

"Eddie!" Reyna giggled as she reversed away, "you're still married to her."

The Hummer's eyes looked his assistant up and down, "she'll be gone soon enough."

Reyna chewed her bottom lip seductively as her boss moved in closer. Her grille was getting warmer by the second...

A chime from the ramp-way entrance tensed the atmosphere in the room. Edison quickly pushed Reyna with his tire to the side, adjusting himself professionally to stand tall on his axles. The BMW's eyes narrowed as she watched the moment pass over. She hated interruption, especially when the two were alone together.

It was back to business.

"Melise!" Turo sung as the convertible's soft smile appeared in the doorway, "good morning, my star model!"

Reyna waved a tire 'hello' with a sweet smile. She noticed the Honda's weight pulling four hefty lightyear tires on her rims.

She had likely put the tires on herself. Reyna had a fond heart for proactive youngsters.

"I take you've come here to hear the good news—"

"A surprise!?" Melise nearly squeaked, interrupting the businesscar. Her excitement was steadfast.

Edison exchanged an amused glance with his assistant, Melise was too adorable.

"I've told you we are happy," Turo explained, gauging the convertible's reaction.

"IGNTR is happy; we are all so pleased with your dedication. I'M pleased with your work."

Melise's brown eyes were starry and eager as she stared at the Hummer, impatiently awaiting his announcement.

"You're going on your first runway show," Reyna spoke calmly, finishing the sentence.

"Hosted by a branch of Rolling Tires magazine."

Rolling Tires? THE Rolling Tires reowned magazine? Mister Turo watched as the convertible's joy seemingly turned to some sort of stiffness.

She blinked a few times, "You're giving this grand opportunity, to ME!?" he watched as her excitement blossomed back as she exchanged glances with the two.

"Yes! You've made us proud, we sent your shots to each and everyone on our team!" Turo spoke, a bright white smile on his grille. His joy was in each creased grin of his metal.

Her eyes remained twinkled, "A fashion show!?"

"Mhm," Reyna answered, "tomorrow, in Miami."

The convertible seemed lost for words or action as she looked between the two, "in Miami!? Tomorrow!?"

"Relax, Hun' we have the whole trip prepared and booked for you," Reyna smiled, reversing to her desk on the far end. She could tell the new girl hadn't lived the high life before.

"Reyna is right, we have all covered for you," Edison spoke, "you just have to be ready by 4PM today, keep your A-game on."

Melise was speechless as Mister Turo escorted four forklifts to his aide. Her eyes wandered the room around her. Element Sleek Rims trademarks adorned twin pillars in the center, collections of rims, lugnuts, and tires

remained glass encased along the walls. Some models dating as far back as the fourties. This was her new life, no more oil. It was only then her thoughts cleared, revealing the reality in front of her.

LEAVING TONIGHT?

She sucked in a breath, biting her lip in a mixture of excitement and anxiousness. This was her earning, this was her prize.

With the gesture of his tire, Edison caught Melise's eyes, and she turned quickly to the large laminated print displayed for her. Glossy and catching rays of stray sunlight. The image— her, a mature and elegant convertible in mauve, decorated to a contrast in her original appearance. The woman on the large poster, confident, fearless and victorious. It was all her. It was what she could do, who she could be.

The Hummer drove around to see the shots again for himself, "I think you look good in purple," he said nonchalantly.

Her eyes scanned the image, detail on detail. She couldn't believe her eyes, no one would recognize it was her. No one would know the shy car behind her confidence. She had lost everything exciting merely weeks ago, but now the odds were in her favor.

Melise turned on her tires, hardly breaking a sweat as she lunged the heavy gear, "I'M GOING TO MIAMI!" she hollered aloud, a wide opened smile tugging her fenders. Mister Turo watched with a hearty grin as Melise bounced on her shocks round and round in glee.

"Oh Chrysler! I better get packing!"

"By four o' clock," Turo repeated, watching the convertible speed into the elevator as the forklifts departed, leaving the poster attached to a large display, "We'll have an escort for you right here."

"Thank you, again," Melise composed herself, her voice becoming soft again, still brewing with excitement.

"Hard work pays off, always." Turo said, "I couldn't be more proud of you, Melise."

Her eyes seemed to not find any words. A silent growing smile followed by a series of rapid nervous blinks gave the CEO all the understanding he needed as the lift chimed, closing the doors.

He breathed a proud sigh, staring at the closed elevator. Melise was a different one, much unlike the other employees or show cars he'd worked with. Her personality, the little quips he could pick out during their small interactions. The way she stared with her doe eyes like an impressionable teenager, but spoke with a softness that resonated acceptance and hope to the world around her. Her habit of looking down in nervousness, the way her fenders got red. She was so ordinary yet enthralling— her refining was up and down, but diligence profound.

What truly caught the businesscar was her innocence. She was an adult with such purity that was painfully obvious. Sure, a Hummer was big beside any coupe, but beside a convertible? Turo felt like an eighteen wheeler. The girl, the nature. The novelty... the sales.

Edison still couldn't agree with IGNTR's choice to cover her peach paint. It's youthful vibrancy was grand for Element Sleek Rims. He could easily remember how striking it appeared in her timely shenanigans with their race car when she was only a lowly staff member in the Racing Series. The image of her laying flat on her undercarriage surrounded by invading cameras was severely unflattering compared to the shots of the two under a gazebo. Reyna was sure— along with some others— that the two shared a kiss. It was out-of-character to Edison, he knew his she wasn't wasting her time with IGNTR's fiery race car, especially after the tension grew between the sponsor's reputation and racing officials. He was out of her league to say the least— she had to know it.

The reputation, the reputation. IGNTR wanted to cater to millennials, no doubt. They also wanted to try something new, sell rims... and make things right. The plate was filled with good fortune on their end.

He could hear her engine getting closer. Her grille graze his side.

"Mmm, where were we?" Reyna whispered as he turned, to face her, a smirk on his grille.

"Just getting started," Edison said, locking his lips against hers. If budget wasn't met today, spending time with Reyna was the next highlight he looked forward to.

* * *

The Accord's bright smile kept the atmosphere blossoming. Tables weren't all full, but the cars were lively. Her brown eyes scanned the room as her customers pushed their oil cans aside, a cue from the purple Honda's growing grin as she turned her cab from the approaching car outside the window.

"She's coming," Vanda whispered loudly, "Shh!"

The cafe became a quiet parking lot as the convertible pushed the door open with her gentle tire.

"SURPRISE!"

Melise's chassis jumped in shock as her wide eyes scanned her mother's cafe. Cars left and right congratulated her. The convertible's confusion remained until the crowd dispersed, revealing her mother polishing a large portrait beside her grandfather— the familiar ESL cursive in the corner of the her recent photo shoot. There she was again, sensual and confident, hung in the cafe for all prying eyes to see.

Vanda squealed as she embraced her daughter, "You look stunning, Hon!" Melise could hardly hear her amongst the chatter of patrons.

The convertible's eyes gave away her humiliation, "Mom, please... "

"Whaat!? It's so cute!" Vanda giggled, giving the poster another once over.

"I'm not a child, I don't need my achievements framed for all to see," Melise stated, her tone steady.

Vanda accelerated, quickly turning to face her daughter's tier statement, a look of confusion on her hood.

Melise had a look of shame on her front, and if Vanda wasn't more keen of her daughter, she wanted to tell her something.

"Is something wrong?" the elderly Honda approached the pair of his family. Customers soon tuned back to their own tables, back to their chatter in unison.

Melise drove her way to the cafe's staff room, holding the swiveling door open for her family, "I have news to tell you," she said calmly, her eyes adverting between her mother and grandfather.

His eyes turned to see Vanda already after her daughter, driving her way inside— true to her motherly nature. He followed the pair into the quiet room.

Melise wasted little time turning on her Lightyear tires, a slight grimace as the weight made her axles sore.

"I know you're proud of me, Mom," her soft eyes twinkled as Vanda returned a worried half smile despite her nervousness.

"I know you both always encouraged me," she continued, exchanging glances with the two, "but I'm not a little girl anymore, I'm not a child any longer."

Vanda's cab seemed to slump in melancholy as her daughter's speech raced through her circuits. Thoughts raced through her mind as Melise continued to speak.

"... I... haven't been for some time—"

"OH CRYSLER!" Vanda suddenly hollered, scaring Melise.

"I should've known! I have a granddaughter coming!"

Melise's eyes widened at her mother's abhorrent thought. A baby!? She thought the news was pregnancy!?

"Mom!? NO!"

"Vanda calm down! Let's let Wynter finish," her grandfather hushed. Melise couldn't tell if he had a clue of what she was going to announce, and for better reason under her mother's silly meltdown, she spoke above both of them, assertive and clear.

"I am leaving for Miami tonight."

Vanda's whines were quickly hushed. Did Melise say Miami?

"Tonight!?" the elderly car repeated, surprise in his voice.

"You just got back from Tennessee... that was..."

"Four weeks ago," Melise answered, "a month ago."

Vanda's eyes searched for answers. She couldn't have heard her right, "now you're leaving again!?"

"Yes," Melise said rolling forward slowly. "I've worked tirelessly with my new job, and now I'm... levelling up you could say."

The two watched as the convertible twiddled with her tires. A smile spread across her grandfather's grille as he approached his granddaughter, his eyes bright and warm.

"I'm rooting for you, Wynter, always have," he turned to see his daughter's eyes filled with worry as she watched the two, Melise giving her mother a loving smile.

"She's all grown up, Vanda."

The words seemed to hit her head-on. Vanda's eyes stared, but her mouth opened and closed— speaking and fathoming. Melise was no little 'Wynter' with a bow on her roof. Idling before her, her own, her brown eyes full of life and wonder— but her place, her ambitions, her life, still up the incline.

Vanda had her cafe, her success, her fortune, her family.

What did Melise have? For a second, the Accord pondered the reality with sheer precision— akin to a semi truck headed down a steep mountain with a heavy tow.

Her daughter was injured, fired, then alone— again. Her excitement, the joy when the Piston Cup Series sent her the letter— she must've been a child then, no, child-like glory. She was estatic to have some sort of job as loyal and busy working with oil. She had these unfathomable spikes of determination when she settled in place.

Vanda knew. It wasn't just child-like exuberance, it was substance. Melise found herself substance working with the Series, and it was taken away.

But now...

Her eyes settled on Melise, giving her grandfather a comforting embrace with her tires as he wished her luck. She was confident, a warm smile on her youthful front, a resonation of maturity and strive. Even if it wasn't for the long run, the ability to try— to assert one's self, to be strong enough.

"Melise," Vanda called, watching her cab follow her eyes towards her. Her front became stoic and listening, the decision already made.

"We'll be rooting for you," Vanda said genuinely, a smile spreading across her fenders, "just one thing, honey,"

Melise cab cocked to the side ever so slightly, "Yes?"

"Please, PLEASE, try to get me an autograph from Darrell Cartrip if you see him."

The sun was bright through the wide panel windows as the late afternoon arrived.

Melise hauled her luggage in tow, her excitement vibrating in her shocks, as she pulled into the ESL building she'd grown familiar of.

The skittish chatter of a male voice conversing with a woman- Melise could see the silhouette of the Hummer and his BMW behind the adjacent and smaller office room. Reyna's office.

The two were nearly bumper to bumper. For a moment, the young convertible's eyes squinted, her suspicion rising to the surface.

"Miss Ruunes!"

She turned quickly, finding the man she hoped to never see again. The golden Bentley, his high and mighty voice, his overdramatic appearance down to his personality.

Melise pursed her lips, it was Jonah-Dawn. Mr. Fashion expert, what was he doing here?

"Did I ever tell you how lovely you look in your natural coat of polish?" his voice was confident, praising... fake, maybe even sarcastic.

Melise's eyes watched the mentor stare her up and down the same demeaning way merely a week ago. His eyes seemed to tell a different tale, and for a moment, she couldn't tell if his pleasing expression was forced or genuine.

"You told me it was plain, ugly even," her soft dismissive voice answered, true to her words.

Jonah shot her a reproachful look, "Noooo waaay," he extrapolated, his eyes widening in surprise. "You know I didn't truly mean those things."

Her cab shifted, she gave him a side-ways look, a futile attempt to seem confused rather than annoyed. Melise had risen, she had poked though the velvet, and now he wanted to be kind?

"Why are you here?" her calm and rather gentle voice came after a moment of silence, a second of composure.

An approaching engine answered, "He's going with you."

Melise's eyes widened. No way.

"Going... with me?" her voice was small as she looked up to Edison, arriving late with a flushed Reyna on his tail.

"Yes, yes," the Hummer hushed Melise away from the cars, escorting her to the side. He could see the surprise and evasiveness on her hood. He wasn't surprised himself.

"I know you want to be big, explore on your own, but you need protection out there, Melise." He exchanged a friendly glance with the Bentley in the distance, his posh smirk causing Melise to grimace silently to herself.

But Mr. Turo was right. She was no world-class supermodel, still just a growing amateur, she didn't have big rigs to haul her, or bodyguards to protect her. Jonah, the insufferable melodramatic sportscar was all to guard her expense.

She swallowed her pride. This was another opportunity, if she could deal with her former coworkers, she could deal with a pushy 'mentor' too.

"Alright," she answered, breathing a small sigh. Melise could feel the excitement revving back in, she had to push through, just like the first few days on the job. Jonah's high maintenance wasn't going to ruin this trip.

"That's the spirit, kiddo," Turo grinned. She was always trying, he loved it.

"If you run into any problems, call us— me."

Melise noticed Reyna's quick shake of her hood behind him as the CEO realized his revealing wording. Before he could utter another word, the white BMW sped around him giving Melise an encouraging smile.

"We'll- ahem, be here... if you need anything." her eyes glanced between Melise and Jonah arriving beside her, equally baffled by the awkward exchange.

"Thank you," Melise answered, dismissing the air. As far as she knew, it wasn't her business, no matter how strange it was to be romantically with your own boss.

"Well, have a safe trip," Edison waved a tire, "Jonah, her extra rims-"

"Already stored in my luggage, I would never forget those precious things," Jonah cut him off allowing his tire to roll like a yo-yo as his gold rims shimmered with his smirk.

"Good, good," Edison replied, watching the Bentley lead his way outside, his mirror's flexed, glancing back to the convertible's slow cruise towards him.

"Melise,"

Melise turned on her tires, giving the CEO her attention, "Yes?"

He gave her a proud grin, "Game face!" Edison emphasized with his treads spacing out.

She couldn't help but smile. This was it, back in the fast lane, this time, no more cutesy stuff. No more hiding behind the shy smile, no more immaturity.

"Chop chop! Let's goooooo... " Jonah called his voice rising an octave.

She would have to hope for the best.

 ** _6:55PM_**

Soothing white noise of engine vibrations kept passengers relaxed as they remained parked, dosing off for the long journey.

Melise kept her soft eyes peering at the cities below the cloudy window, dismissive of the Bentley beside her on his disruptive phone call started merely minutes ago.

"... Yeah? Well I'm busy right now, so I don't care."

His loud boastful tone echoed the fuselage, other vehicles muttering annoyances to themselves Melise could faintly make out among their whispers.

"Tell them that I would rather stare at my tires all day long instead!"

Melise cringed, her eyelid twitching at the volume of his tone. It wasn't an important call, surely, that wasn't Edison Turo on the other end. It was supposed to be a quiet flight, relaxing even.

She glanced over the sports car, seeing his eyes staring into oblivion as he listened to the muffled tone, ready to open his mouth again.

She barely knew him, but knew his kind all too well. It was all about him wasn't it?

"She's still just an amateur, but she'll get better, and better fashion sense," he did a once over the convertible, his eyes ignorant to her grotesque stare of him.

"Maybe in a few years once she ditches the bland fruity color," Jonah nudged his tire against her door, prompting further annoyance from the convertible.

Melise's eyes narrowed. This was it? Her prize for working hard, more disrespect? She watched Jonah grin wide, continuing his loud conversation about her to someone else, no one who mattered.

She could feel the sting coming back, it pinched her eyes, but she blinked, pinching back. This was it, no more weakness, no more nonsense.

Jonah felt the steady whip to his side, startling him briefly before he turned to see her rosy cheeks, her angry eyes.

"Shut off the phone," Melise spoke low, her voice dominant and clear, "and shut up."

"Excuse me?" his lid raised in confusion as he stared her up and down, surprised she spoke to him in such as harsh manner.

Melise studied him briefly. He didn't seem to understand, liekly used to walking all over his students, "I know you heard me," her soft tone addressed, she turned her eyes back to the window, a pouty look of distaste on her hood.

She could see him lost for words at her side. It didn't take long for Jonah to open his mouth, a protest ready to interject.

"You dare—"

"And we aren't making this into an issue," Melise interrupted, sliding the smart device from his wheel towards her right tire, tucking it safely under her tread. Her voice grew louder, missing it's signature submissive ambience, "Hush your big mouth so the rest of us can fly in peace."

By the time she turned her cab straight, a ping of adrenaline coursed her circuits. She could see the small array of smiles and relief as passengers searched for the heroic voice. Soon enough, twin honks jingled in unisom appraisal on her confident behalf.

Melise blushed, smiling cute as she lowered on her suspension, abnormal to the attention. Jonah narrowed his eyes at the display of cheers around him, sinking on his tires with zipped lips. She had jumped over the line, not a single protégé on his had told him to unequivocally 'shut his big mouth'.

She didn't bother to wait, resuming her thoughts, her axles still stiffened.

What was it again? High suspension, gentle eyes, roll like a river and ignore the world around her.

That was it. Representation, and presentation on the catwalk...

Jonah's cross attitude died down, his confidence was smushed. And who was she? Just another amateur jumping to her first gig with an overdramatic aura surrounding her plain paint job.

His gaze glimpsed to her fender beside him. He knew she liked to play with oil and dirty race cars. She wasn't the talk with that adrenaline-something's big boss, West Gearcab, for no reason. Jonah knew she was involved in some scuffles, bad press. He studied the scribble below her headlight, unable to make out much of the letters from the awkward angle.

His eyes trailed up her cab, watching her soft nonchalant stare of the world outside her window seat. Her cheeks were extra rosy, still beaming from her speech mere minutes ago, but her eyes, relaxed and weary.

She should have considered herself lucky. They could have given her some toiletries job at their main facility in Los Angeles instead of this. Girls had dreams to be the center of attention, spoiled, beautiful and important in front of the cameras. They'd bow down, roll over and fetch for the Jonah-Dawn. He had them wrapped around his hundred karat rims, desperate for fame. They would let him do whatever he wanted...

Miss Rūūnes? She was like a dwarfed kitten with sharp ugly fangs.

Jonah glanced to her eyes, seeing her fast asleep, her soft breathing causing her frame to rise and fall gently under her fluttered closed eyes.

She still had his phone tucked away safely under her right tire. Good thing he wasn't expecting anymore calls in the remaining three hour flight. It gave the Bentley some time to think over the new world order.


	29. Chapter 29: Dismissed

"We can't sell photos everyone can already see," the blue pick-up truck stretched his axles, checking the clock.

It was just past ten in the morning, the sun was peaking through the haze.

Grid shrugged, "Well, I guess we hit the breaks with our sales. She actually looks hot for once, not like a creepy doll."

The suite door swung open and Preston sped inside in a frenzy, scaring his friends.

"...Guys!...guys!... "

Grid looked him over incredulously, "Calm down, dude, it's freaking early."

"Two things..." Preston panted, out of breath from the short speeding journey. Grid and Tony looked him over, sudden eagerness on their hoods as they listened.

"What?" Tony asked, exchanging a questioning glance with Grid.

When Preston caught his breath, he opened his mouth to speak, only to begin panting again.

"McQueen's... coming back to race!"

Grid and Tony exchanged glances again, "No way," Tony spoke, wonder in his voice.

"I thought he was retiring," Preston breathed, a smile growing across his fenders at the inevitable cause being revoked.

"I thought he died," Grid commented, cutting the air thin.

" _I thoooouuugh-uh heee diiied._ " Preston mocked, staring down Grid with a look of contempt, "You know how I feel about this, and you crap all over my moment as usual."

"Chill," Grid held forward his treads in defense, "Well good luck to him, he's gonna need a lot of that stuff."

The three soon exited the suite, cruising down the once filled halls with open space, "You said there were two things," Tony asked, "McQueen's coming back to racing, and what else?"

"Oh yeah!" Preston accelerated to face the pair, skidding on his tires as he swung himself in a messy U-turn, "Coach says we have to clean the oil lane, and track."

Grid and Tony's paint schemes seemed to get pale as the two stared in horror at their friend.

"CLEAN THE TRACK!?" Grid curled his lips in disgust, "DON'T THEY HAVE CARS FOR THAT!?"

"No way am I cleaning the freaking oil lane AND track!" Tony agreed, equally horrified of the idea.

"This is our last day on the job, this is how he wants us to spend it!?"

Preston hung his hood in shame, his two friends looking him over, Grid's eyes suspicious as he noted the sedan's guilty appearance.

"What happened?" Grid asked, his expression becoming worried as the answer was becoming clearer.

"Coach knows what we did," Preston answered, his voice gravely.

Grid accelerated forward, "So you decided to tell us that LAST!?"

"Hey! It wasn't my idea to sell photos of her with Storm was it!?" Preston's eyes narrowed.

"But you weren't reaping the benefits of earning bucks when we got requests were you!?" Grid snarled, the two boys were equally matched as the closed in, bumper to bumper.

Tony watched the pair shout obscenities, seeing the familiar white truck, his supervisor approaching, his expression a horrifying mix of annoyance and anger. He shook his tires, trying to alert the fighting pair.

"...At least I'm not a McWeenie wannabe! Don't you have your own image!?" Grid growled just as his back bumper collided with a predictable being. The grey coupe's mirror's adjusted, seeing the terror behind him.

"ALL THREE OF YOU, TO THE TRACK, NOW!"

Watching the trio stand erect as horror filled their windshields, the middle-aged white pick-up truck followed close behind them as they scurried silently to the track.

Passing vehicles young and old along the route, the supervisor's grille could have tugged into a grin at their expense. His anger kept his RPM's sky-high as the boys scuffled about, attempting to line up in U-turns on the pit lane, but only denting their metal in unison as they bumped into each other.

The coach scanned his eyes along his employees, the red sedan, his sides still donning the Piston Racing Series staff decal along with several '95' souvenirs. His expression was pure guilt, peer-pressured by his pals.

The other, the grey coupe, a hybrid Toyota of some kind, shot invisible daggers, a distasteful contempt on his grille as he was ready to protest his abuse.

The other, a navy blue 4x4 truck; his eyes rapidly shooting left and right, desperately trying to find his innocence as he witnessed his fellow oil runners sweeping marbles in the distance.

As far as the coach could reason, he must've had the worst array of hired runners this year. The boys had hardly paid attention, the job was half-assed each time, crew chief's muttering profanities under their breaths as quarts were half full, pints were received empty, or oil cars were absent from their stations.

For seventeen years, he had done this job, respected, rounded, noble. Merely a week ago, the coach had been threatened with termination, his training to blame, his advice to blame. His existence.

Now nonsense. High school behaviour that made him cringe.

Anger was an understatement.

He exhaled a breath through his grille, "Take a long hard look at them, you'll be joining in a minute" he gestured with his tread at the trio, their fellow entourage washing and dusting the asphalt. Their hoods grimed with dust that shined under the scorching sun. Their faces distressed with the aimless tasks.

Tony swallowed nervously, hoping the answer he could get was far from relating to a former co-worker.

"S-sir? Why are we being punished?"

"Why?!" his statement was cold and gravely, a pierce at the young truck's ego.

"selling unsolicited pictures online for dollars?!"

His cold stared crossed the Grid and Preston, the latter narrowing his eyes to the floor.

"Does that ring a bell?!"

Tony kept his bumper zipped shut, seeing Grid's tires roll forward slowly,

"With all due respe-"

"With all due respect?!" he cut off the grey coupe's watching his hood crinkle at the volume.

"Is this why you all refused to do your jobs properly?! You were making money selling pictures online?!"

The trio were silent. Their hood's low and submissive.

Sliding cans of white and yellow paint, the bucket's stopped against Grid's bumper, his kept his teeth gritted posture despite being briefly startled by their arrival.

Towing three paint rollers over, the coach's eyes narrowed as Tony and Grid became horrified once again,

"Paint the lines, all the ones faded and chipping."

Preston's eyes scanned the track, every line, every corner, all were chipped away from wear and tear of the stadium. He exhaled a defeated sigh.

"You have all day, bright and sunny to work. Get to it, now."


	30. Little Miss IGNTR

_author's note:_

 _I have much guilt making you guys wait so long for a REALLY GOOD chapter. I think it's important to build up each character, giving them a relatable and otherwise telling reason to be in front of you. Melise always reminded me of that girl who was beautiful in her own right, delicate but firm when she had to be. Gentle, but wise with her steps. Likewise, I imagine (and still do) that Jackson is more than an egotistical driven 'gashole' (as Armie Hammer described him amusingly so). I think he's lost, not so much seeking the limelight, but the prizes that come with it. He has some redeeming qualities, such as his determination, but also his ability to know what's wrong and right. Jackson is a frustrated quiet guy with good looks that's finally getting his limelight, and he picks who he wants in it._

 _That was long, but more or less, this story became a sort of "confusion" as I merged through writing it. I gave readers the impression that Melise and Jackson would be together often, but I let that promise fall short for many of you, which as we all know, brings annoyance, and boredom. I hope I can make it up to you, I really do intend to keep that promise in this long and detailed chapter, in fact, I think it might be the best one yet._

 _I'd also love to connect with some of you through art and interaction. Feel free to browse my Instagram: milkyteaway . I will follow back all fandom members as fast as Lightning! I love interacting with you guys!_

* * *

 _When_ her rear-view mirrors flickered into the sight of Jonah slouching his way through the terminal behind her, Melise kept her sentence neutral.

"Jonah?"

He looked her up and down, a distasteful expression on his grille at the sound of her voice.

Melise reversed, her eyes concerned as she saw his hefty tow, "Are you alright? Would you like some help?"

The shimmering gold of his karat paint glared over agitated travellers' windshields.

"Normally, I'd have my bag boy here to grab these things for me." his statement was filled with pique as he eyed the tow, much of it belonging to Melise. Tires, polish, and Turo's instructions for success.

Melise scanned the busy airport, "Who?" she inquired, her lids raised, she looked perplexed.

" _Bag. Boy_." Jonah repeated, spacing out the words for her. "I was having a chat with him on the phone. He whines too much about carrying my tow for a small price, then you took it away from me. I bet you lost it!"

Her expression remained collected, as his unruly and otherwise pathological glare focussed on her.

"No, not at all. " Melise's voice was clear as she remembered. She quickly reached into her unhooked tow, seeing the device safe and sound beside her luggage.

"It's right here," she said, letting the phone slide itself onto her tread, the convertible gently placing the device into Jonah's eager tires. Soon seeing his expression cool down, he seemingly sought after something else to whine about, his eyes darting around without so much as a 'thank you'. This was a fashion icon, a mentor, a man who was likely respected in his career, but he behaved like a spoiled child. Melise didn't bother to chew her inner cheek at his remarks, she could sense his turbulence the moment he crashed into her life.

But he had her recipe for success in his treads, she would suck it up unless he went too far.

If only cars could change.

Jonah drove past her, "Remember who has all the information here, Missy," his flamboyant tone was patronizing as he rolled past towards the gate. He must've still been upset about his lecture onboard the plane.

Melise followed, keeping her laughter at bay. The way his voice cracked and harmonized on the word, 'Missy' was more amusing than hurtful. The rush was just too much. Lately, it was becoming easier to laugh than cry.

The X-ray alarm chimed loudly as Jonah scolded an officer about removal of his spinning rims.

Melise giggled to herself, excitement was one hell of a narcotic. One she couldn't ever miss.

The drive wasn't long, only a few minutes of warmed evening breeze, the view of lovely palm trees on the Avenue.

The bratty Bentley lead the way, his interests far from the convertible smiling at the view and cars she passed by. He was eager to get in some time during rehearsals to chat with some former protégée as he made his way into the tall modern Inn, leaving Melise alone outside.

She scanned her eyes up the height of the building, her suspension stretched, allowing her cab to view further up the towering structure.

"Watch it, please," a voice, male, articulate and stern, came. The convertible accelerated, turning to see a ravishing Jaguar give her a sly smirk from behind the safety of a large burgundy SUV.

"Am I in your way? Sorry... " Melise watched as he nodded his hood once, thanking her for moving herself from the center two entrance doors of four. The two cars drove inside, just as Melise caught a glimpse of her license plate, the pin reading 'JIN' as her glossy dark brown scheme with pink edges of paint glowed under the pot lights.

She was one of the other models, her entire existence screamed the words into Melise's circuits. She could practically hear Jonah's appraisal inside, his yips of delight as 'Jin' gave him a wide grin.

"Oh my gosh, it's Mister Dawn, hey!" her valley tone came in just as the two caught sight of each other.

Jonah's eyes lit up as if she were another fifty karats in front of him, "In the metal, my favourite model, Jin!" his voice was sing-song as she laughed loudly.

"Only a year ago we worked together, and now I have my own fashion line, what are the odds, huh?!"

Jonah chuckled, "With a car as good-looking as you, high!"

The two shared a series of laughter, ignoring Melise outside, escaping the commotion of cars along the street.

Either this was a very important modelling show, or there were many venues on this avenue. The familiar livery colors of Liquid Adrenaline was only next door. A carpeted entrance, guarded, and allowing a small group of next-generation race cars inside. Not a sign in place designated what was occurring inside, leaving Melise to her prudence. She wasn't invited to that event, it was none of her business.

Even if the odds of a talented advent were probable...

IGNTR was up to a lot lately, this was just a start for her.

She narrowingly avoided collateral confusion of cars left and right as she made it inside her event in one piece.

It was a hotel, the kind of environment all too familiar for her memories. She passed her partner with curious eyes of the world around her, his ostentatious conversation with the fellow competitor— Jin, audible, but ignored as her tires rolled her around.

Signage didn't direct traffic to their dressing rooms, and Melise opted to squeezed her way down a crowded hall, now tensing her nerves as she was surrounded by girls, dolled up and chattering.

For a moment, she wasn't sure this was the right place. The girls, several modern coupes seemed to take little note of her appearance. Some, specifically two, focussing their attention down the hall, where Melise had once been.

"I can't believe he still has his job..."

she shifted her pastel blue cab weight on her left side, the Benz emblem flickering under the incandescent lighting. Melise put her brakes on tight, stopping.

Were they talking about...

"Haven't _five girls_ already reported him?" the girl next to her, a Camry with glowing chassis lights under her dark sparkling red cab replied.

Melise noted the grimace on her front. Jonah was that despicable? He was just rude and spoiled as far as she could know. She blew a soft sigh, accelerating past the two competitors. Yes, he was annoying, patronizing and rude at times— most of the time, but she had a place to be, he had likely left her luggage beside the vanity provided for her.

Besides, it was rude to eavesdrop, even if it was about someone she shared the same contempt for. Her brown eyes blinked keeping her hood as high as she wanted, she soon passed the girls.

"I feel bad for the car he's with," Melise hear the comment loud and clear, her eyes uncertain and unclear for a moment longer as she gathered her thoughts.

Why did everything have to change so quickly? Why was Melise always in the gutter? What did those coupes know about?

"Excuse me,"

The two turned to her soft voice, the Benz smiling at her twee.

"Are you talking about that man?" Melise slightly gestured her tire towards Jonah parked in the distance, not seeking to invite obscene name-calling.

"Ugh," the Camry's grille nearly folded in disgust, "Yeah, don't you know him?"

Melise thought over her response. Of course she knew him, in fact, she might have already gotten to know him better than she knew Storm...

"He's my mentor," she answered, a flat tone in her voice. The two coupes gave her a look of horror, quickly exchanging glances with one another.

"You know, _that guy_ is a predator, right!?"

Jonah's sly stare coated the environment, searching for his amateur protégée. He couldn't miss that peach bumper down the hall with those bright little tail lights as they entered the large dressing room, following two female coupes.

The sound of the door slamming behind her caused her lid to twitch. Melise stared over the two young models, their expressions worrying her.

"We should've introduced ourselves before, but I don't want to be near that... _thing_."

The elegant Camry dragged her right tread along the carpet, dusting her rims off, "Emla, not 'Emma', but Emla."

The Benz shot Melise a sweeter smile, "And I'm Merina."

Melise presented the two with anxious 'O' mouthed stares, "Melise." she said with little emotion, her nerves running wild. She beckoned the question on her mind.

"You said he's a predator!?"

Why did she always have to end up in these kinds of messes? It was like she was still stuck inside a squall at the track.

Merina opened her mouth to speak, her eyes widening in terror as the gold Bentley pushed his way inside.

"There you are!" His tone was sing-song, causing Melise to glance in confusion. He was quick to defuse the conversation, recognizing the two trouble-making coupes.

He pushed her bumper, rolling her small frame away from her new found acquaintances. The two girls bit their tongues, Emla's grille crinkling again in Melise's rear mirrors.

Melise could see his cover, he knew his reputation.

"It's time to get ready, I'll have your paint buffered too."

She kept quiet, her throat was getting dry. Was this stuff really true? The other girls entering the room— she could see their grilles elsewhere, minding their own.

Jonah creeped in close, his breath on her window, "If you speak about anything unrelated to IGNTR, we'll be having a chat about you whoring yourself to Storm."

What? Her eyes narrowed, the urge to frown fought off. The one's that saw her heckled, they still thought she was trying to...

"Let's face it, you're not much here, not even with these Lightyears," Jonah continued his patronizing advice. His voice grew louder, indistinct engines falling quiet under his tone.

"This is all just a damn apology. An apology to you for breaking your damn light! For playing behind the tracks instead of with your little oil cans. For distracting sweaty race cars who have better things to do than talk to a Honda all day long."

Her hood was low, her chassis inches from the floor. Brown eyes were dull, lacking the life they once had. Jonah had no place to speak.

So that was it? An apology? Melise felt silly for ever doubting it. How could an industry as prime as Element Sleek Rims really want a commoner Honda? Or even IGNTR? For Chysler's sake, they had Jackson Storm.

But that was it. She earned this, even if it was a way to make-up for a headlight injury.

And Mr. Edison Turo, his warm smiles, his encouragement, the words meant more now than they ever could have.

She looked at her reflection, the space beside her filled with a forgettable heap of gold crap on wheels. If what those coupes said was true, Melise could easily believe it.

He wasn't going to let her win. He thought he broke her down, try to manipulate her back up. That cheeky stupid grin on his grille...

"Don't you dare... " her hood rose back to it's parallel height.

Melise shifted her weight, looking Jonah sideways, a glare from her own eyes instead of the ease through the mirror.

"I EARNED THIS." her tone was firm, loud and clear. A look of fear and uncertainty tainted his hood. She was yelling at him again.

"I don't care if this was all some sort of 'apology'," her voice mocking his tone on the subject matter, "I put up with you, fourteen hours a day to make it here!"

The Bentley began to reverse, the same look of unexpected surprise on his hood. She wasn't like the other ones...

"I don't need to demand any sort of respect from you," Melise hissed, her once sweetening face now sour. "I worked for this, through thick and thin. I didn't need to pull other cars down to bring myself up."

He was silent, letting the truth digest itself. Jonah searched her eyes for any sort of sarcasm, finding venom instead.

"You're of little help or decency," she said curtly, her tone softening back to its natural, "So you can go away."

The chatter backstage built up again, Jonah's grille hot and guilty as he headed out, tail tucked between his tires.

Melise breathed a nervous sigh, ignoring some prying eyes as she watched the door slam closed.

It wasn't always easy to stand up for yourself. She could still feel the stiffness on her axles, treads trembling slightly. She had never left the storm that started months ago, she had never truly stopped being pushed to the asphalt.

"Miss Melise?"

Her glassy brown eyes looked at the forklift wearily. The vehicle had white paint in tow, four racing tire, white ringed, much like Storm's stacked beside.

"Are you ready?"

"Absolutely," her warm smile returning once more.

* * *

He was sure to park beside IGNTR officials, but by the time he squeezed his way through spectator traffic, Jonah found himself blinded by the lights as the show began.

The girls moved in waves, each one having her own set of slightly changing instrumental for her themed sponsor. By the time sixteen coupes passed, Jonah had made enough judgement in his mind to fill a driver's manual.

The tunes fell into a sensual tone, piano keys and saxophones playing as Jin appeared in red hot pride, her glory, her might. Jonah watched her exaggerated movement of her trunk, in her slow swaying cruise of a dance. He could still hear her parents scolding her for spending time at his beach house. She wasn't much older than eighteen, but she was mature to him.

Were those white walls? His eyes followed her back bumper, hearing the pompous cheers of her parents merely lots away.

The protective bears; there they were, cheering her on. The Bentley took the cue to stay low, they were likely still upset about Jin's trade. Her good parts for his limelight. The trade was fair, just like the four other girls' exchanges. Some coupes just weren't cut out, and that's where Jonah had the recipe for success. His time for theirs.

It was only fair.

Briefly, her father, his large Suburban frame turned to scan the audience as his daughter made her departure backstage. He soon caught sight of the fashion icon under his shimmery gold finish. He must've been looking for ages; each show he came to.

"You! You're the damn guy that's been talking to my daughter!?" his Boston accent was brash as he pushed his V8 engine through reversing cars. Jonah's eyes went wild, his gold couldn't save him this time around.

Collective gasps filled the air as he pounced the Bentley, IGNTR officials reversing in horror. Loud subwoofers kept the show going as wagons rolled the runway, sponsor's tires engraving their elegant tires, others painted in glowing aesthetic to match N20 Cola, Combustr and even SynerG.

The genre of booming music changed with a swift intermission. Soon enough, softer pop tunes hymned, and her angelic, white frame rolled onto the stage.

Jonah halted his scuffle, eyeing her with great interest. She was beautiful, innocent, fresh...

It was Rūūnes. Turo's angel get-up was too perfect. He knew too well how to turn hoods, even if the angel was sitting in venom merely minutes ago.

Melise's tires were weak, her glowing ringed racing rims heavy and sore on her small axles. She didn't smile, she wasn't supposed to. She could hear some breathes of awe as her engine hummed taking her along the gradient. Her eyes glassy and doll-like as she kept her confidence quiet and humble. A starry-eyed loom for the audience.

A hefty sucker-punch to a golden grille took the attention away, the pair scuffling again. Melise could see the Jaguar from earlier, her screams of protest as she raced out toward the only exit ramp at the end of the catwalk. Her engine growling as she approached the Honda head-on. Melise reversed instinctively, pulling her treads out to brake.

Her back tire slipped, and she wasn't quick enough.

She never was.

The crash of her metal to the foreground was inaudible under Jin's screams and the loud speakers to match. The Jaguar fought her father for Jonah, squeezing herself between the two like a child saving her favorite toy.

This was it, Melise looked on from her not-so-familiar spot on the cold ground. She didn't hear an engine peep as she straightened herself, driving slowly, as she gazed at the mess Jonah caused. The instant karma almost dripping. She maintained her composure, straightening herself with little emotion on her front, all her screams of embarrassment discreetly harmonizing inside.

What was the feeling? She didn't know it. Maybe it was carefree, acceptance, indifference. She watched as security cruisers zoomed past her, officials pulling and pushing cars from the growing crowd of tension.

Melise cruised onward. It was different this time. Truly different. She knew, she could feel it, she lived through it.

The bickering continued in the background as she felt relief trickle in. Melise wasn't done for, she wasn't back to square one. Her heart didn't hurt, no longer did her circuits fuel rage, resentment, or scorn. No tears welded up in her eyes.

Security was there to pull the all-terrain giant off the Bentley, minor dents on his karat roof, hood and trunk.

"Are you alright, Ma'am?" a security sedan asked, her did a once over her frame, seeing no dents or bruising.

"I'm fine," Melise answered, watching her 'mentor' being roughly escorted from the building, the family he fought with reaping in hastily insults as their daughter whined.

Jonah may not be the wisest or the most humble car she had the honor of meeting, but he was still her teammate. She huffed in a breath, pushing aside her pride and following his exit from the show. IGNTR officials seemed to vanish in support on cue.

He was a fool.

The Bentley sucked in fresh air though his grille outside. He wasn't expecting to get roughed up. He winced through the dents on his mental, turning to the soft hums of Melise's approaching engine.

Jonah bowed his hood, she was gonna let him have it again... Not this time.

"Are you okay?"

He raised a lid in stupor. Was she blind?

"DO I LOOK OKAY?!" his words cut the air, she reversed back slightly taken aback.

"HE RUINED MY STEEL!"

Melise gave him an inquired look. A suggestion of lacked astonishment.

He glared at her, ready to accuse, "THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"

She squished into a defensive position, assuming he was ready to attack her. Instead, the dented car accelerated in kicked up burning rubber, speeding away down the street.

Melise blinked twice, the scent burning her engine. That was it for Jonah-Dawn, gone as fast as he came. Rightfully so. She didn't speak a word this time.

Adjusting her mirror, Melise caught sight of the two coupes from earlier, their grilles poking out from the interior corner to watch their predator flee. She was glad to have witnessed some sort of solace.

"Hey, are you okay, Ma'am?"

The bouncer's LED headlights scanned her white paint, her racing tires.

"You some kinda race car fan? That's coincidental... "

He had come from the building intricately lit next door.

He watched the road, seeing the Bentley nowhere in sight, "Just because I think that paint you're rocking looks sweet on you, I'll let you cool off in here," He lead the way to the red rope.

"You're letting me... _inside_?" Melise asked. He gave her a once over smiling with a nod of his hood. Those white ringed rims couldn't have come from anywhere.

The sound of police sirens echoed down the street, and Melise took her opportunity, making her way inside with a quick thank you.

Her eyes blinked, a neutral expression on her hood. She was sick of the ups and downs. Now she could just catch her breath.

* * *

Maybe it was the bright lit room, perhaps the array of guests standing tight and high on their suspension. Expensive taste— oil champagne from rich Dubai, flavorless with a tinge of shock in each sip. Not a single car was a commoner. Not a single regular coupe, or simple sedan. Each and every, colorful engines revving pride, others keeping the RPMs steady with captivating spoilers, glowing chassis edges, pure silver rims to match their attitude.

It was nice, deserving really. Jackson knew he belonged here, here at his seasonal victory event. No pushy cameras, no rude fans tailgating— at least what he could see from it. No distractions.

The racer arrived an hour late, keeping his admonishment of IGNTR's chief executive, West Gearley, at bay. The maroon Lexus was likely hanging around this important party, that, or he was making kissy-face deals to bring IGNTR more money.

The races were won, he had it in the bag. The Cup was earned, wasn't that enough cash for IGNTR?

Always about the money. More money, and more, and even more.

Jackson felt the good vibe around this place, ignoring the thought. There was respect— cars calling him 'Mister Storm' as if he were some veteran racer with a renewed life insurance premium. The talking was okay, as long as it lasted for a few seconds, and it was something good to say.

None of that nonsense comparing him to McQueen. The guy was retired now.

Storm was in good tires here, peering from his darkened table isolated from the world. He could think away from the chatter, loud subwoofers, and ignore guests that tried to join him— as far as he could tell, this was a blind spot in the room, no one should be able to see him. A blind spot, the perfect place to relax until they called him up for his toast, a toast he would forget later if Ray didn't record it. Too bad Reverham wasn't in tow behind him, even chiefs needed their time off, he deserved that much.

Guests were eager, drowning in the gasohol they could fit in a quart. Jackson wouldn't bother with them, they came to him, he didn't need to go to them. Wholeheartedly, it was a point to worship him now. These vehicles wouldn't have treats to guzzle their tanks in, not a place to be more interesting if not for his wins. Jackson was V.I.P, he was the only one— not even Racelott and his little entourage were worth a second glance across the dimmed flood lit floor.

The server forklift came around again, this time Jackson raised a tire in halt, protest against refilling his cup.

"Nah, don't bother," the race car's sonorous voice was clear as his grey glance moved from the floor to the bottle in tow.

The forklift's amused face shook into a look of confusion on Storm, "Give 'ya less? Huh? You in the wrong party, Jay?"

His grey eyes traced a scandalized line from the server's forks lit by small headlights to his windshield, "No more. Go to another table."

The race car watched the forklift briefly study his decals as if he was speaking to someone other than Jackson Storm. The luminous blue strobe lights reflected in his now scornful eyes.

"Here," Jackson stated, watching with a calculating eye as the tossed tip landed on the forks, flashing lights revealing the twenty dollar logo engraved on it's edge.

The server paced his own reaction, gauging the gesture occuring right after the racer's blunt demand. A crooked smile coated his mouth as he pushed himself past the champion racer.

Too easy.

Jackson settled on his treads. As soon as this night of praise—praise he deserved— blew over, he could get back to what really mattered, winning, as per usual. Nothing else really mattered, as long as he kept himself at the top— simple deeds. he could call it, no one mattered more than him being the breadwinner. No McQueen, no Treadless, no pesky little convertibles in designer tires.

Just him.

The small group, their bright decals glowing with the noise of excited guests. They couldn't miss the signature 'S' decal, the blue ringed tires, the darkened paint in the shadows of the corner table.

"You think it matters if we say 'congrats'," Chase asked, eyes scanning the racer's solitary.

"It's IGNTR's season ending party," Ryan stated matter of fact. His tone suggesting the idea of commend was mandatory courtesy. He turned on his tires to face Hollis, "Jackson won over seven races this season... damn..." his eyes narrowed as he thought about the inevitable. Blinkr would be idiots to dump him for some other guy, at least he hoped.

The trio had decided to show, free drinks was a good way to cool off. Hollis had hoped to meet some more groupies. When he entered the semi-formal party, he was pleased with the reception, but the female guests were as rare as a sight of Storm himself.

N20 specified that a rim decal gala was occuring next door in the hotel. He would've showed up to greet the cute girls had he not needed to deliver sportsmanship to the livery race car in solitary confinement. The lif of a sensentional race car had its ups and downs.

The guy was pleased in his corner, keeping cars and sociality alike, far away. He wasn't a troublemaker, not an angry and bitter bystander. Jackson was a guy who loved his own company. Ryan took the moment to think about the possibilities of their interaction, unable to waver any scenerio.

He was also too mysterious. His crew chief, Reverham, seemed distanced away from his personal life as well. Chiefs could be like family... if Jackson ever wanted to be included.

His deep blue eyes suddenly caught on the sparkling cream paint of a girl submissive on her axles, moving slowly, cautiously, through the encases of cars left and right. She had a timid interest on her beautiful hood, racing tires that looked oddly familiar in design, abstract in color. When she turned his way, her eyes still scanning, the race car shifted, focussing on his friends, oblivious of his prying, chatting with one another.

Melise did little, shimmying her way through cars moving in disorganization, some taking second glances at her Manufacturer's servant get-up.

She was thankful for the darkened lights, no one could see or recognize her in white paint either. She needed to park herself, the weight was practically dragging her treads.

Melise's eyes scanned the floor, making a soft bee-line towards an empty table away from the madness. No dishes, no skid marks present. It wasn't her own, but she could at least rest.

Her tires came to a halt, watching two next-generation race cars pass in front.

There was no way... He was definitely...

She could see the decals from her discreet seat next door. The enlarged 'S' for Storm, the bright blue, the 2.0 on his side.

She blinked twice, the act instinctive as she trailed her eyes to the side, climbing them up, seeing his face... she couldn't forget those grey eyes.

What were the odds? Likely.

Melise felt a knot in her throat. He was merely meters away, his nonchalant gaze of his own venue told a story of boredom she heard once before. Eyes scanning slowing over the mass of uninteresting cars.

There he was, Jackson Storm, right to the table next to her, oblivious and uncaring under the dark-lit dancehall.

A smile didn't contour her lips, not a shake of her stiff axles. It was only a little over a month and a half, but it felt as if it were eons.

His mouth flexed into a slight curve, he relaxed into his lot, breathing a deep sigh and closing his eyes.

Melise's lower lip quivered, her nervous tick to bite it kicking in. He had to have forgotten about her existence.

Her heart sledgehammered her cab, keeping her movement awkward and clumsy. This was all because of him? He was the last car on her mind merely minutes ago.

It took a few determined tries for Melise to put her weight on the hefty Lightyears, causing the sharp shock of discomfort to rattle her. Jackson's grey eyes shifted, noting the scuffling beside him, hearing the clanking utensils.

Her heart sunk into her stomach. The strobe lights flickered, luminating her face for him every other second.

His stare was momentary, he seemed to be calculating, prying her big brown eyes, minor surprise on his sleek hood, "Well, well. 'That you, Peaches?"

His question was rhetorical as he looked her cab up and down, his stare on cue. He would recognize that twee face anywhere.

She looked different. Mostly.

What was she doing here? What were the chances? He could easily play off her surprise appearance as something uncanny.

His bold eyes studied her tires, smaller and colored different from his own. Here was 'Miss IGNTR', her little racing tire get-up and all. Was she actually wearing racing tires? This had to be a joke.

Melise's eyes were stiff, the stare locked in place as her throat was dry. Jackson watched on, seeing her form an 'O' on her lips. She was shaking in a ball of shock.

He waited for her interesting response. Seeing her voice locked away somewhere inside.

Instead, he got a sudden squeak of several spaced out yips, or hiccups. She covered her mouth with her treads, unable to emulate the unique quips again for their sheer originality. Her cheeks were reddened.

Jackson raised a lid, his expression stoic and reasoning, within seconds a laugh erupted from him. What the hell was that little chittering sound she did?

She hung her hood in shame, listening to his chuckles dying down, her face displaying some sort of forced determination. Her bottom lip pouted out as she straightened out.

She couldn't win this. He got right to the point.

"Doing another photoshoot in my tires? Huh?"

His words were clearly a stab, hardly a greeting.

"Uhm... "

Jackson's eyes were looking her up and down, his gaze dim as he paused.

"You must be hungry, right?" he said confidently, Melise was caught between words, unable to get what he was doing.

"A little car like you should be eating portions like a race car if you're gonna pretend to be one."

"Hey!" Storm waved a tire to the forklift previous, watching him soon traverse the distance.

"What do you eat? Fries with a coolant milkshake, huh?" He smirked, watching her seem to fall in submission.

She had to have known that she was taking some of his thunder. She wasn't stupid.

The forklift approached the pair, his eyes interested in the champion race car beside the young lady.

"Yes, Mister Storm?" the race car let the words repeat in his mind a second longer with pride.

"Get this girl," his grey eyes looking her demure form over again, "get her all the goods on a kid's menu."

The forklift's expression contoured some amusement, still ignoring the girl for a celebrity's attention. He headed off, quick to please.

Melise kept her composure, her eyes down as embarrassment creeped up her hood. She reversed awkward and slowly back to her empty and borrowed table.

"Where you going?" Storm asked taking his spot on his table, his lot, his expression neutral as he gave her yet another once over, "Park yourself here."

Her RPM's raced, she followed his poised command, driving up to his opposite end, parking herself after a moment. Her eyes were far away.

To Melise's content, he didn't seem to ask any questions, but she could feel his solid, yet seemingly invulnerable eyes on her.

She let him look on, her white paint wasn't going to go to waste now, someone could see her angelic costume Edison and Reyna worked on.

Jackson didn't feel so much as a rush of coolant— nothing too jumpy, to his circuits. She appeared out of nowhere, her engine was quiet and modern, allowing quiet and prude cars like her to sneak up on him.

No one should do that, not even Gale.

He watched her bite down her bottom lip, she did that once before if he could remember.

She looked nice, the snow white paint and all, even the tires. Their size sweet and small in comparison to his real working size. Her hood was full of that rosy blush, all too common with her. He'd be lying to himself if he didn't find her nervous spells to be delectable. She had the most interesting faces on that hood of hers.

Too bad her eyes didn't want to see the Champion in front of her. Her nervous bundles keeping her cab miles away. She could talk, Jackson would let her, but soon enough, today, she'd better find some answers to his questions.

"Your French fries and cookies, Ma'am," the forklift's sudden appearance caused Melise to jump in popped anxiety. She watched as he placed a large basket of crisp fries in front of her, a glass bowl of warm chocolate chip cookies next to them. Storm eyed the edibles with disinterest, tipping the waiter's glowing grin as he soon sped off.

Melise watched as his eyes bore into her, Jackson looked pleased to be feeding her, some sort of pleasure to play mind games and make her feel like a child. The starry-eyed doll stare from her end became stern, she looked down at the appetizers, the smell of crunchy V.I.P fries for a child wasn't an opportunity she was going to let Jackson poke fun at her for.

She couldn't let those cookies go to waste either...

Her treads caught a scoopful, and she pushed the fried potatoes into her mouth, chewing with decency as Jackson's mind seem to be at a red light.

Melise's gentle stare clotheslined his moment to embarrass her with a load of junk food. She was actually eating the fried, and with a delicate efficiency he didn't know existed.

"Thank you," Melise said, her sweet voice muffled as she enjoyed the crunchy treats.

Jackson watched her with his mouth slightly agape, his eyes calm, keeping his wonder in check. She was never a dull moment, even when she crossed the line.


	31. Rev For The Crowd

Some servers peeked their hoods through the main hall, viewing the spectacle of their first VIP gala. Expensive taste was the rage, even if the star of the party, Mister Jackson Storm wasn't indulging in rich gasohols,

A forklift pulled his way out of the concealed kitchen, his forks holding a fresh baked batch of cupcakes for table two. He raced his way to the duo parked across from one another, seeing the racing champion's expression quickly become a sly grin under the absorbed lighting as the sugary sweets were placed in front of his female guest. Her eyes widened as she saw yet even more treats delivered her way. Her brown eyes made contact with the race car in front of her, horror in her pupils as the dishes of junk food piled in at his challenging request.

The waiter eyed the pair before departing back to the booth. Either there was a familiar event between the two, or Storm was spoiling some lucky convertible with a never-ending supply of sweets.

His short stature gave peeping an advantage, and with a quick look over his side, he caught a glimpse of her pearly-white hood doubled over in blooming rose as she kept her thoughts and eyes at bay. Her 'entrée' untouched.

Hanging around gifted and striking cars did that. Whoever she was— she got lucky to be up close and personal with the racer and his growing prominence. It must've been a record third hour passing with Jackson Storm parked firm and planted at his dimmed table away from his sponsors and guests alike. His desires were met, a low profile with a sizeable block of space to occupy and breathe.

Little Miss Sunshine and her rosy fenders must have gotten the lucky draw on Storm's list of favorite cars...

His wheels took him away from the tensed duo parked a short distance away— both inattentive of his departing presence.

Displeasure crossed Melise's hood as she looked over the trays of desserts in front of her. Regardless on her opposite end, Jackson, as cool as ice on his treads, watching his party with a hazed care for her concerns.

Melise pursed her lips, the sugar was gritty along her teeth, and cookies couldn't possibly go down well with several dozen cupcakes... Her eyes traced themselves to Jackson, his grey glare, fixed and acquainted elsewhere as if her existence was a faded memory. This silly little challenge wasn't going to end well, she couldn't squeeze another bite in.

The tunes changed rhythm abruptly, the heavy 8O8 reverbs vibrating down to mellowing R&B as the strobe lights dimmed further. A savoury atmosphere creeped in. Some patrons were eager to make the most of it as then shuffled about, their tires and cabs doing light rhythm work.

Melise blinked as her eyes worked overtime to compensate the darker lighting. She felt the cooled wind of passing sedans to chill her hot and stressed out circuits. Her eyes adjusted under the flashes of LED showcasing her mammoth array of desserts like prizes blinking to catch attention. Her tires pulled close a cold quart of a sugary beverage she didn't hesitate to drink on her dried throat. Taking a small sigh, and pushing the shake away, her eyes met the turning glare of Jackson, focussing his sight on her nervous glance across the table.

"Enjoying it?" he said flatly. His eyes studied her for a moment, the grey orbs moving about slightly around her face. His expression quickly became a proud smirk, "Don't worry, I can get you all the refills you'll need on your little oilshake too."

Melise felt her eyelid twitch. To anyone else, this looked like a grand gesture, as if he were spoiling her. Using her hunger as a convincing little excuse to push her buttons. Jackson's eyes seemed to study her face in more detail, as if he were looking for some sort of defeat in her sweet pure stare.

Jackson was mocking her. Melise was no different from anyone else now. Her momentous blank stare becoming a fusion of fear and uncertainty masked under a leer at the livery race car.

Why was he upset? Just because it was his missed opportunity? Edison chose her, IGNTR pinned her down with promises they kept. Why couldn't she have her own adventure— her own novelties?

Melise watched as Jackson's looming smirk faded into a twined grimace.

Her happiness couldn't matter to him, why would it?

His grey eyes froze her circuits as his grotesque-ridden expression changed with the roll of his tongue; an icy look of anger growing on his hood as she kept him waiting. Melise's eyes filled with a glistening twinkle— consternation brimming in her system as uncomfortable knots tied inside. She looked away. How could he hate her so much?

She opened her weak lips, the soft plumps merely an inch apart. Her blinks didn't cause her hood to dampen despite the sting in her eyes. Why did Jackson even matter? He hadn't done a thing for her besides tossing a towel on her roof for her own little mishap her first day in, what else?

Melise's eyes took a second slow and weary trace up his dark glare. She looked away quickly, anything else to look at was a safer choice.

Her oil running days were becoming hazy, and Melise wasn't sure she could ponder all the memories with him. They were locked away somewhere in her mind. The warm and fuzzy recollections down to the very expressions Jackson had during their interactions.

His pride, that confident grin he put on for the cameras... but then there was his smile— the rise of the edge of his mouth slightly, his eyes interested for once as she watched him behind his fans during his interview with Mister Hicks. His half-smile right pass RSN cameras to her huddled beside a tent...

His smile, she wasn't going to see it any time soon.

The cold surge in her circuits scared her, the stimulus was grand. Her new found emotion, bothersome and restless, shoved it's way in... Melise didn't want to believe it.

Jackson was furious, his anger hurt her, poking fun at her heart strings indiscriminately. This was different, she wasn't annoyed the same with Jonah, not even the boys she had once called her co-workers. Her heart hurt, a feeling of sinking down an elevator. A big contrast from her embarrassment outside his trailer.

Melise's lower lip curled under her front teeth as the world was fading into a thought. What could she possibly say?

... IGNTR chose me... a plodding peach convertible over you, a fierce racing champion... deal with it.

Jackson didn't speak, his glare remaining, calculating, prying and tugging. She would have to give up this 'kiddie' game sooner or later. Answer the damn question...

The whizzing of an approaching engine gave way to grin on Storm's front. His grey eyes catching sight of a fellow racer shining his pearly teeth on a dark purple paint job. He wasted little time cruising over, an expected look of awe on his hood Jackson took pride of.

"Hey! Jackson Storm!" he sung his name out impressed. "Nice season."

"Thanks, I appreciate it." Jackson replied. His grey eyes pulled a once over the car, seeing the digits of 64 engraved disorderly with a logo he could hardly make out.

"Barry Depedal," the race car said, introducing himself. Jackson returned a nod of his hood, his face indifferent but respectful enough to the intrusion.

"Thanks for coming, Depedal," Jackson replied, the sentence coming out less flat than Barry expected. Storm sounded pleased, his white, shiny smile appeared, contented with the innocent gesture. Different from the edge of crafty passive-aggressive insults barbed at McQueen months ago. The RPM supressant sponsored race car lightened up, looks like he wasn't on Storm's hit list. He returned a smile.

"I gotta tell ya' man," Depedal said, "I know the sponsors don't like us to brag, but damn, you're one badass racer."

"Thanks... again," Jackson replied with a slight scoff of his satisfied tone, "Don't sell yourself short, the top ten's still good. Even if it's not first place."

Adjacent to the duo of race cars chatting, the young Honda kept her presence demure. This other car didn't so much as bat an eye her way, Jackson omitted her very existence seemingly. Her eyes scanned over the IGNTR racer once more, his intricate details were always interesting to her since the day she laid her eyes on that dark brand name. Was that a large 'S' or a hurricane symbol common with the weather network on his sides?

Melise narrowed her eyes, ignoring the two cars still chatting as she explored her own world, still examining Jackson's decals. Maybe that comparison to a meteorology symbol was corny...

Trying to forget her nervous pander to make use of time, her eyes wandered up where they didn't belong, catching Jackson still conversing with the other race car. Her fenders felt warmer despite the cold bloating building up in her engine. His grey eyes were relaxed, unmoving as he listened to others, sometimes all over the place as he talked. Jackson's features were keen, his entire demeanor uncaring— no, indifferent. His style was out of the ordinary, always clean-cut, and a darkly ominous choice of colors for a guy who loved to gloat so much.

It probably wasn't far-fetched to assume Jackson likely spent his earnings on buffering his frame when he could find the time...

His eyes moved suddenly in acknowledgement, and Jackson's sight was on her pondering stare. With the curious raise of his lid, he exchanged a glance with the racer beside him, then turned his cab to face her, that same pleased smirk growing on his front as Melise quickly snapped out of it, biting her lip and looking down to her tires flustered. Her eyes jumped to the ground and up to the two acknowledging stares at her.

The dark purple race car squinted under the dimmed lighting over the table, "Hey! I thought I saw someone there," he smiled as his blue eyes took in the sight of her.

He turned to look at Storm, "So who's luckier, you, or this fine angel you've got on your tire?" Depedal joked, the two race cars exchanged some innocent jabs of laughter as Melise hung her look of surprise down in hot, submissive, embarrassment. Of all things he could've said... that?

Her hood straightened after a moment, hearing the hum of the 'RPM' racer's engine igniting, "I'll be off now, see you at the track."

"Later," Storm's one liner came, taking his eyes off the race car, cuing his departure. Melise watched as he straightened himself in a simple reverse and roll forward, his eyes bored.

Why was she even here anymore? Jackson couldn't tell her how to behave and live.

Melise opened her mouth, his grey glare shooting over instantly, "Want to say something, now?" his tone quizzical as he cut her off. "Then let's answer some questions."

Jackson rolled his eyes as he thought over the array of nonsense clouding his mojo. Why did you join IGNTR's team? How did they choose you— WHY did they even choose you? Why are you painted white instead of peach? Are those real racing tires your lugging around? How the hell did you get into my party? Is your name really, Melise? What kind of name is that?

She returned a pouty glare, a soft 'hmph' blown as she reversed herself from the table, seeing Jackson's stern expression become course and perplexed as his eyes followed her journey away from the event floor elsewhere. Her movement was sluggish and pitiful— her hefty, silly, designer tires slowed her down, causing visible discomfort as she departed down the bright lit hall. Storm gritted his teeth after turning back to his solitary, she was behaving differently. He wasn't sure he even wanted to deal with her. Melise was far from being VIP here.

She had no real place here, and going back to her little pageant was a good choice if she wasn't going to heed his commands. Who else got her that new little gig of hers if the races weren't won, the cash didn't flow...

Storm began sweeping the mess off his table into a waste bin he aligned beside. His tires got a quarter of the job done in annoyance before a waiter rushed over, eager to assist.

"Just... clean this up," the racer instructed in monotone as he gestured the appetizers and desserts left forgotten— most wasted in agitated spite. The small vehicle wasted no time cleaning off the champion's table as his tire tapped the floor in disinterest. The noise of fellow racers approaching their tables nearby interrupted Storm's muddled thoughts, and he sighed, opening his eyes to returned solitary, and a squeaky clean surface.

"... You think he's actually coming back?" Racelott asked, his tone curious as Ryan seemed to think the possibility and odds over.

"Who knows. He was at some beach outside his headquarters a week ago," Ryan replied in genuine doubt.

"You sure he wasn't just on vacation?" Chase asked, an amused tone on his words. The Press loved to spin photos and news into publicity whenever they got the chance.

Ryan rolled his tongue at the thought, "Nah, they say he was racing— training a gold coupe I think."

The two racers turned to Hollis arriving to their lot, three young female coupes dressed in racing tires accompanying him in ecstatic glee surrounded by a VIP car.

"Oh-my-gosh!" one said as her matte silver finish glimmered under the strobe light. Her sights focussed on Chase Racelott as he looked at her like a tractor-in-the-headlights.

"I saw a picture of you in this racing magazine, you're like, really fast."

"Heh, thanks," Chase replied, caught off guard. He exchanged a curious glance with Hollis.

"These girls are from the little show going on next door, you know, the fashion show I was talking about?" Hollis grinned as on of the girls leaned her weight on him, her lids batting amorously.

"Some guys got into a fight and the show was cancelled... " one of the girls said, she rolled her eyes, uninterested by the news.

"Gotta admit it, they look good in racing brands," Hollis continued as he gave the two coupes seductive grins. He leaned in closer, whispering to Racelott,

"Play along, girls love race cars!" he nudged.

A few meters away, Storm kept his thoughts on the earlier conversation the trio were discussing. Racing on a beach? Was McQueen really training to try to make a come-back? Wasn't one wreck enough?

It didn't really matter, he would focus on that later. The music quieted down as Storm put his gear in drive, accelerating towards the stage. His gruff expression soon changed to a hearty smile as he listened to the praise given to him.

Now to get this speech over with.

* * *

She flushed the toilet a second time, wiping her mouth with her tread. Her eyes blinked wearily.

Loads of fries, cookies and milkshakes did not sit well. It was such a childish attempt to assert herself. He probably thought she was more moronic than ever...

Melise reversed from the stall, pleased to have the elegant washroom to herself. She hesitated a moment, not sure if looking at her reflection was a fruitful idea. Her airfilter felt dirtier than usual, and she wished for a car wash.

After cleaning herself up, Melise exited the powder room. Her thoughts began to race as she tried to ignore Jackson's familiar voice reverbing on the loud microphone as he wowed his crowd in the other room. He was a growing revving and rolling icon.

Settling in the emptied carpet hallway, Melise breathed a sigh on her sore treads. She was alone as staff went to hear his toast on the event floor. Looking around the environment, she took in the trims of silver velvets, a red floor carpet leading from a galleria at the end of the hall, toward the patron floor.

She took a glance at the analog clock hung neatly in gold above the wall, it was just past 10:40 PM. Her little show next door was finished hours ago. Melise could try to remember what her instructions to do during an emergency were had Jackson Storm not been clouding her judgement. What were the odds he was here too...

Melise hadn't seen the race car in months. His prideful attitude growing wild since then. He about shot daggers her way once he saw her little get up. She could've felt beautiful in it had he not scorned her.

She listened as cheers echoed out of the event hall, a meddling feeling of content that it went well for him on her thoughts. Jackson worked hard for his praise, even if he was mean sometimes...

How did he know about her and IGNTR? Surely, news spread fast, but only about cars who mattered. Did Edison really send those criminal— but elegant shots of her first run-through to EVERYONE with IGNTR? A pith of guilt and embarrassment shocked her circuits as she imagined Jackson's reaction. He must've tossed the posters in the trash.

Melise blinked the fatigue away, watching through the translucent glass as blobs of vehicles moved about, their identities too blurred to make out. She headed to the veranda out back. If she looked flustered now, white polish wasn't going to hide it. She couldn't stand to be near him, he drained her heart out, and if she went back to the cream-brick hotel next door, she would have other problems to deal with.

Something about him seemed so real, as if he understood her at some point in time, as if they knew each other... or maybe wanted to know each other. The way his eyes seemed to light up when he scared her coworkers off the track, to give them both peace and quiet. When he actually came to her on her last day to apologize, to bid her farewell...

The view was beautiful, a clear night sky and a cool breeze to clear the clog in her air filter.

Melise closed her lids, pondering the laid-back look of indifference on Jackson's face. The way he spoke to her, he was never angry until he needed to be. When he won, she could feel her own excitement and joy, knowing he was going to have something to bring pleasure in his life.

The way he flexed his jaw and smiled for cameras... his genuine smile her way, causing her heart to flutter...

"Enjoying the view... Lychee?"

Melise's eyes shot open, the adrenaline rushed through her like coolant. His voice was low and addressing. She turned to see Jackson, he had his weight leaned against the door frame, his expression satisfied as usual.

"Lychee?" Melise repeated, her words were nearly a whisper as her face remained blank, confused.

"I'd call you Peaches, but you aren't that color anymore," his sonorous voice replied.

He was blocking the exit, trapping her in his presence. Melise wasn't going to run— not this time. No more running away.

"Jackson," her voice was soft as his eyes acknowledged her, very little malice in his expression, "I want to talk."

He digested her graceful admittance, expecting this interaction to go down with a fight of words. She was calmer, her voice matched her body language for once.

"Finally giving up, huh?" Jackson's reply was swift. He closed the patio door, turning to face her in their privacy, "Good, I've got a lot of questions."

The racer seemed to think for a moment, lost for words. Melise noticed his lost train of thoughts, taking her initiative to speak.

"I wasn't sure what I was going to do with my life afterwards," the convertible said, her voice stammering slightly as she thought her words over. choosing carefully, "Maybe go to school... University, you know? I'd... thought about it."

Jackson was dumbfounded with her words, she didn't have to talk like some philosophy coach, assuming he could piece together her wild imagination.

"Well, I got an opportunity in the form of a car representing the rim industry visiting me," Melise explained. "I figured, why not?"

Jackson rolled closer, his grim look returning, "You didn't stop and think, this sounds ridiculous?"

"Of course I did," Melise answered. She gestured her tires, "I didn't know I would have to wear these heavy things."

He acknowledged her words, annoyance still brewing in his eyes.

"And then?"

"And then I..." her words trailed off as she tried to piece her story together clearly. There were so many ups and downs.

"I had fun." Melise stated, her eyes batted away from his glare most of the conversation, connected to his in an instant. A hopeful twinkle in her gaze.

" _Fun?_ Are you serious? Is that what you call prancing around in my sponsor?" Jackson's cut was on cue as he saw her frown soon appear.

"So let me get this straight," his mature voice cornered her, "You didn't even want to model for that— what was it? Element Rims? But you decided to anyway. Then you got all sheepish, weak and whiny as usual, and almost gave up..."

His sentence took a pause, letting his stab of her ego settle in.

"Then you decided, 'I wanna try again even though I can hardly move in tires made for a race car', and you somehow made it this far."

Melise blinked rapidly, the pith of her tank feeling numb. Jackson glanced up in mocked thought, piecing together her meddling life.

"Why does it make you so a—"

"Didn't I ask you to explain? Now you wanna ask me questions!?" he cut her off, uninterested in what she had to say. "You know I got you your little chance at fame, and you actually try to make it into the spotlight where you don't fit in? Now you're showing up at my party like some VIP guest."

Rage burned on her eyes, Melise wasn't going to back down now.

"And you think _you're_ any better!? Being a jackass to everyone you meet!" she raised herself up in intimidation, watching his face turn sour, "Without your fans and the Piston Cup Series, maybe you would be street racing alone somewhere!"

A security sports-utility vehcle pushed open the door beside the IGNTR race car, hearing the erupting exchange.

"Better than prancing around pageants and shaking bumpers for cheap and trashy income!" Jackson scorned, ignoring the truck beside him rushing in to push the two cars further apart as they gradually closed in on each other.

"You always have to twist things! That's not what I'm doing at all!" Melise squeaked out before the security truck covered her mouth with his tread. The other blocking Jackson from getting any closer.

"Who are you? I don't need security here, she's just some little kid," Jackson said annoyed.

"I'm not a little kid," Melise managed to dish in the dying moment. Shoving the dirty ture away from her lips. She hovered her eyes down to the floor, feeling defeated.

"So that's what this is, huh?" Jackson turned, his engine revving, "Let's just forget everything before."

Melise kept her pout away from the race car's fuming glare. He soon departed, accelerating inside to his venue. The echo of Storm's engine rocketted into the night sky. After a brief moment of silence, Melise could read the security car's mind.

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." He spoke, ready to escort her away from him again.

The feeling was all too familiar.


	32. Detour

_**author's note:**_ Hi all! I revised and edited some of the first chapter of this story. Just some minor edits and tweaking. Enjoy!

* * *

Eleven 'o clock at night was late, practically the normal hour to be asleep during the training season. Racing was teidious, concentration was prime, and then there were the rigorous dawn to night wind tunnel exercises. The strain on enjoying off time dragged down some of the guys. Florida nightlife was something different for a change, the tremors of subwoofers were still beaming. Guests and racers alike dwindled in numbers, still eager to make the most of IGNTR's success.

Humming of a modern V8 engine remained muffled under the noise as his tires brought him into the setting. Some guests batted looks his way, hardly making out the Nitroade decals' barren colors beneath flashing LED lights.

Tim's eyes moved along the gradient of the hall, seeing coupes and sedans alike enjoying their chatter in unison over quarts. Some were sparsely packed in groups, hardly moving as they parked in conversation. Others enjoying their time on the floor. He didn't know half of them, and he didn't have bet Storm knew them either.

In fact, the champion racer was no where in sight. The star of the show bolted himself out of socializing, as usual. If Treadless was lucky enough to catch Jackson Storm, he was guaranteed to see that smug grin accompanying him. The very thought boiling his circuits with annoyance.

Tim was late— hardly wanting to arrive in the first place.

The racer shook away the thoughts. sponsor representatives told him to make an appearance, make friends. Truthfully, even with easy-going race cars, it was a neat little challenge. Some guys were bold and competitive, letting the talk of the crowd and adrenaline get the heat of the moment, only to be misjudged by the negative media. Other guys behaved as if they were the only one on the track. The Sports Network spun everything as they pleased.

It didn't matter, they were all fighting for first place, friendship was in another world. Who could befriend the guy who was possibly ready to trash you to the next RSN journalist in sight?

Tim's brown eyes narrowed as he gripped the gift tucked under his axle. He didn't want to bother himself with Jackson Storm. The guy was like a cold wall of ice. Admittedly, climbing over it was worth the look of defeat, but the very likelihood of getting him to say something worthwhile was akin to landing an airplane on a stop sign. Treadless wasn't looking forward to the encounter. He could almost hear the condescending tone on Storm's resonant voice right now.

He blinked, the flashing wasn't heavy, but the changing spectrums were still something to get used to. He caught sight of the bright green Vitoline-colored-frame surrounded by more competition. If Chase and the other guys could laugh over a pint to drink, why couldn't Jackson do the same?

Tim couldn't imagine the IGNTR racer grinning with the guys. Not a friendly part was itching in his body. Some sort of D-bag one-up attitude. Treadless would be the first to admit he thought Jackson was playing a lame joke of a first impression on his introduction to the team. Storm was hardly more than a freshman on a school sports team, yet he was certain of his desired place as team captain.

His tires moved him past the next-gens, their chatter keeping them oblivious in the corner.

These racers— they were the scattered debris after the storm passed. Hardly as magnificent as the dark, ominous clouds rolling through. It ached to watch the unthinkable happen; speed over sobriety. Score over sportsmanship.

Treadless scanned the large hall a second time. If Jackson was here, he was likely tucked away in his mouse hole gloating like a lion. His wheels took him to a back hall, well lit, luxurious, with a hint of vintage flair on the ancient analog clock.

Without so much as a glance his way, the dark mass swerved with his cab skillfully around a stunned Tim, quick to avoid a minor collision.

His engine slowly toning down, the whizzing erupting like a breeze as he straightened his proper U-turn, merely inches from his competitor. His livery hood was buffered to near perfection, the polish reflecting his on-looking discordant expression.

Hardly acknowledging Treadless, the grey eyes followed a bold SUV approaching, in front of his menacing grille, a smaller white Honda convertible, modern and fashionable. Her wheels moved against time as her hood kindled some irate she tried to mask with pouty lips and a tinge of rose on her fenders. Her brown eyes fixed themselves upon Jackson as she noticed he stopped to look her way.

"You told me to explain, I was only trying to," she said calmly. Storm returned the same look of contempt her way, as if looking at a flat tire.

"Like I want to hear about you having fun!?" he hissed, the music still loud enough to drown any mass attention down the lone hall, "You're wearing a Halloween costume in February!"

The security truck pursed his lips, attempting to conceal his amusement between the arguing cars. As far as he was concerned, if Jackson Storm wanted to throw this Honda out of his party, he was going to miss out on a better conversation.

"It's supposed to be an angel..." her softer reply came as she took a cautious glance between the security truck beside her, and Jackson, a short length away. The look on his face suggested he was waiting for a punchline he knew wasn't coming.

"Why would that matter to me?" Jackson scoffed after a moment. He gathered his thoughts, she was hardly fighting back now. She was crumbling, maybe other cars didn't see it, but he could spot her weakness a mile away. Typical.

Melise inhaled sharply, her annoyance brimming, "Its all that has mattered! It's the whole reason you're upset!"

Jackson's glance focussed on her, his lid raising slightly as she caught him off guard with the back-tread comment. Tim kept quiet as he listened, this conversation was already interesting.

"You thought I would be impressed with your get-up? With your amateur photoshoots?" Storm retorted, his eyes narrowing further as he grimaced the snow-white paint accompanying a cake-full of makeup on her eyes.

"You always think everything is about you! I did this for myself!" the convertible snapped back.

"I would ask myself why I even agreed to do... this!" her eyes looked down her hood, emphasizing her paint scheme and delicate show wear.

Her brown eyes focussed on Jackson, his own train of expressions fixed still as she rambled on.

"But you get tired of it!" she raised up on her shocks as her words echoed the hall. The convertible settled on her axles, her frustration and anger faded away, leaving a melancholic frown as she kept her eyes on the red laced carpet below.

"Exhausted... when you're looking everywhere for something meaningful. Anything that gives you a reason to get up each day instead of wither away in the same old routine. Then you find a small shred of stupid hope, and you cling onto it."

She looked up, her eyes narrowed, "But you don't know what that's like, do you!? Mister 'I have everything but I want nothing!'"

Jackson looked on, her eyes were sharp as she screamed at him, missing their characteristic gentle appeal. His reproachful look became more intact as she went after his ego.

Her voice fell, losing it's fiery tone, "The last thing I wanted… was to hurt you, or anyone else. I know you're not stupid enough to believe your own idea of how I keep bumping into you."

"I just wanted to feel... purpose. To dream at night— the ones that I could pursue the day after," her white paint seemed to glow as her eyes became starry.

"I've never felt happier in the past months working a job as minial as an oil runner than ever before. Cheering with the crowds," her eyes softened, looking Jackson in his grey stare, "Watching the racers speed faster than I ever could, being in the warm sun under rock tunes and roaring engines... I can't believe I'm saying this, but it was fantastic!"

She exhaled.

"I don't want to give up anymore, I just want to live, a new day each day. Something creative to wake up to, each day."

Jackson's eyes studied her, the cold orbs moving about in inches, making sense of her idea. The narrow contempt was faded. Tim hadn't seen an expression like that before. The odds of Storm losing control of his running mouth was a rare sight. What was this all about? Who was she?

"I know you're upset, but I can't apologize to you, Jackson," the girl stated, her voice blunt with a soft edge.

"Because if I say I'm sorry, I dismiss all the effort I put in. I tried to keep that promise," her eyes trailed down her left fender, the cream paint covering the old autograph.

She exhaled again, her demeanor as calm as a rose in the breeze. Jackson heard all he needed to know. Yet, he didn't look convinced. His eyes pulled a look of confused stupor. Tim recognized the face, it was all too pleasing to forget. It was just a matter of whether or not he would decide to make angry doughnuts on the dancefloor or outside this time.

Jackson soon exchanged a glance with Treadless, acknowledging him with stern precision.

"Nitroade, right?" Storm watched the deep brown and orange along Treadless' side.

"Never tried the stuff, but I'd bet it's still better than your stats." Storm took a swift glance between her and Treadless, his stern look remaining in place. She seemed to be satisfied with her speech.

"What do you say _Timid_ Treadless and _Lychee_ over there get acquainted? One jittery driver to the another."

He watched as Tim's expression became stunned, "I came here to congratulate you, not hang out," he flat-lined, tossing a can of Nitroade to Jackson, seeing the racer hardly phased by the last minute gift sliding towards him.

Storm glanced to the quart, the canister falling on its side as it made contact with his left fender, "I've got better places to be right now." He gave the convertible a last once over, his expression cool and neutral.

The bouncer, forgotten in the heat on the moment, received a comment from Storm as he followed the VIP race car away, his engine blowing a decent rev as he headed elsewhere. Security's large rear-view mirror's focussed on the convertible as he parked some distance away in the shadows of the event floor. Tim's glare latched on him, likely 'baby-sitting' from a afar. Jackson Storm truly was a piece of work, leaving Tim to clean up his mess.

Treadless wasn't sure of it, but the chances of Jackson actually having a fling with someone else was as non-existent as his empathy. This Honda was wearing racing tires, had a mocked small grey logo of IGNTR's 2.0 on her sides. If she was some sort of fan, she had saved quite a bit of bucks to afford the look. It was a shame she had to bear the brunt of Storm's attitude.

Tim gave her an awkward half-smile. He wasn't good at pretending to care like Storm. This friend of his was clearly distressed some, but Tim wasn't about to entertain Jackson Storm's antics again. The champion racer's conniving improvising worked wonders. Tim had barged in to defend her, so now he was "responsible" for her. Treadless had to shake his hood at the realization.

A mute and melancholic look was left on her front before she rolled forward, a weary, meek smile she returned.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she murmured. Her eyes blinking a few times before she settled. Someone else was always apologizing for Jackson Storm.

Tim watched her engine carry her away, the red lights of her tail end flashing between the traffic, soon disappearing behind sedans left and right.

Groaning, Treadless panned a quick look around, seeing no visible prying eyes. He soon followed her.

Whatever happened, she must've felt like she was in the wrong. As far as Tim knew, Jackson could've handled that confrontation better. And his little friendly fan here— she should have covered him in dents for the entire mistake that was his racing career.

Outside, the cool Miami breeze ran through his rims, blowing fresh air through his air filter.

Tim quickly spotted the Honda, her mouth moved slowly in exhaustion as she explained herself regretfully to a door bouncer, his eyes pulling and prying her with concern. He was likely showering her with questions.

For a moment, Tim observed the duo. The Honda, she really was painted much like a snowy-colored Jackson Storm fan. Her metal accenting decals in grey that formed a grand "S", the number 2.0 air-brushed in its center. Her tires were lightyears, the font narrow on each tread as a white ring glowed on its bolted rim. Was she really a fan? Really that dedicated to a trash-talker? A fast-lane junky? A gaming addict? Why did girls always go after the fringes of society?

She was dressed like him, at least, some form of him. She likely wanted to be near him too. Tim could piece together the indefinite encounter. Fans seemed to always bite off more than they could chew.

With Jackson Storm, you were always biting the bullet. It was a lucky enough encounter if he paid a single fan thirty seconds of his attention. If he even looked at you. Sportsmanship be damned. Nitroade would have Treadless' bumper in hot oil if he did so much as disrespect an eager fan. IGNTR must've had due debts to endorse that attitude.

She was headed off, merging herself onto the main road, keeping to the right lane, moving slow.

Melise adjusted her mirror, the glass focussing on the approaching revs. She pulled over to the shoulder, and her eyes acknowledged the familiar face of twenty-eighth racer.

"Hey!" Tim met her turning form, a curious expression on her soft features.

"I don't really know what happened back there, but, uh... "

His eyes looked her up and down as he extended a tire, lost at words to explain his likely sympathetic remark.

"I'm okay. I'm fine." she replied, a small smile to acknowledge him kindly. "Are you?" she asked after a moment, eying him.

"Uh, I'm doing okay, fine, cool." Treadless answered, trying to be as friendly as possible. "So you're leaving?" he gestured the road ahead.

She took a glance down the road, and back to him, "Yes," she answered, pausing to collect some thoughts. Her glance briefly checked him out, knowing he was a fellow racer of Storm.

"I know he was just being..." she paused for a moment, thinking over an array of descriptions for the confrontation minutes ago.

"Boastful."

Tim nodded. That was nothing new with Storm, he was always trouble. Tim was more content with the confirmation that she in fact knew he was being a jerk.

Granted, her choice of adjectives was certainly worth the raise of his lid in minor stupor. Jackson Storm's ego could easily be bottled and sold as boost for its fiery revile, all laced with cool, moderate gist.

"But I have to get back to my own life. You know, stop interrupting his?" Her lips curled into a cute smile, and her engine whizzed as she pulled forward, briefly stopping after a moment.

"Nice meeting you... " she looked at him, beckoning his name with her pause.

"Tim," the Nitroade race car answered.

She smiled, "It's nice to meet you, Tim."

Dismissing herself, the heavy tires rolled along, quickly following the road. Tim gritted his teeth once. He couldn't let her wander the streets alone... even if he didn't know her.

Her distance extended as his decision wavered. If that glance from Storm earlier meant anything, she was being looked after.

* * *

Eying each banner above the opened rooms lining the corridor, Melise rehearsed the room number in her head once more.

 _One thirty-eight, one thirty-eight..._

This wasn't the Emergency department, the halls were too empty. Her brown eyes looked over the room number, a red glow— much like an exit sign, harboured the digital logo, granting easy discovery in a hurry.

A glance inside gave her the sight she was hoping for following the nurse receptionist's directions. The gold Bentley was fumbling with gauze taped neatly around his hood. He muttered inaudible nonsense under his breath as a young Jaguar adjusted his pillow, tucking the fabric under his axles. Her appearance was spot on, she was the same girl fussing merely hours ago. Jin.

Melise reversed into a 'U'. Her brakes locked her in place beside the entrance, allowing her engine to idle quietly in the ambience.

He was okay. There were some minor dings on his doors, a save for the extra large crease bending his hood, but he was fine. She could breathe a relieved sigh.

"I can't believe Dad beat you up," she patronized. "He's not coming to any more of my shows."

"Still glad you ditched your family to see me, baby, you're a keeper," Jonah cooed.

Outside, Melise couldn't help the distasteful manner spreading across her features. Were these two insane? Jin likely still attended secondary school.

"I know, I know," Jin giggled, "I kinda just wanna ditch them entirely, like live with you in Cabo."

"We could share the master bedroom. Live the high life like you deserve."

Jin squealed in delight, reaching over to embrace Jonah. The Bentley squirmed away, a look of disgust on his features.

"Honey, what did I tell you?" he lectured. The atmosphere was silent a moment longer.

"To not touch you without per-"

"Without permission." the two repeated in sync. She giggled in a high pitch tone.

"That's my girl. You're _so_ smart."

The convertible's tires rolled away slowly, her eyes downcast in discomfort.

A nurse cruised onward pass her, his attention elsewhere as he entered the examination room, quickly scolded by Jonah.

"I asked for pain medication, but you and your staff never listen... "

Melise could hear the gradual dissapation of his shrill tone as she exited the premise. One wild encounter after another. She wasn't sure her bargain was worth the hassle it came with, but she was living, that was all that mattered.

Opting to head back to her keep, Melise trudged onward. These heavy tires had to come off for now.

* * *

The creaking of oak finished flooring broke noise into the quiet room.

Keeping the headlights off in the darkened environment, wheels rolled into the suite living space.

With the gesture of a tire, the large bedroom door was slightly pushed open, revealing a sleeping convertible breathing steadily on the end of the bed. Her peach polished reflected off some moonlight on the adjacent veranda. The long ago melted tube of ice cream at the foot of the furniture left forgotten.

There was some work to do.


	33. Can We Be Friends?

A loud crash of glassware awoke Melise in an instant. The rush to nearly speed out the window was fresh as she blinked, her axles getting cold in the darkness of her suite bedroom.

Brown eyes traced a line to the white lights, twins in motion, moving about under the doorway, no voices accompanying them. Melise reached around her for the hard feeling of her phone, the texture of her own coverlets only turning up.

She climbed off the mattress, alert bright on her features. Her headlights turned on, the aqua-tinge color in the settled darkness burned her eyes.

With the light source, Melise could hear some new shuffling in her suite. She caught the sight of her designer Lightyear tires thrown in the corner, and pulled the a single heavy tire near. She had to be prepared.

The door was tossed open, four headlights shined with a gasp as the racing tire was thrown in desperation. A crunch of metal dinged in the silence as the Benz fell on her undercarriage, she held her tires to her grille, doubled over in pain.

"Oh my gosh! Melissa? It's just us!" The orbs of glowing undercarriage LED lights turned on. The frame of a red, shimmery Camry was in Melise's sight.

The convertible turned her lights to the light blue modern Benz coupe recovering from her mishap.

"Remember? We spoke before the show?" the Camry explained, "You know, the one your ' _mentor_ ' ruined?"

With no recognition on the Honda's face, the red coupe pulled forward, turning on the room light.

"It's just us both," she repeated, seeing the stunned convertible staring.

"Emla and Merina, remember? Calm down."

Merina glanced to her side, seeing the white-ringed Lightyear, "She totally threw a tire, Oh my gosh, that really hurt!"

Emla turned to her pal, quick to examine, then guide her to the bedroom washroom with a close of the door.

Melise could feel her cab shaking slightly. She was glad for the imminent fear of death out of the equation, but the reality of cars roaming her suite as she slept merely a room away was something unfamiliar.

The two scuffled in the bathroom, Merina briefly cursing as she demanded her friend not touch her emblem three times. There was a thud, and some muffled arguing back and forth between the pair.

Melise exhaled deeply, she turned on the lights for the main room, finding the array of cherry cans and empty tubes of ice cream finished earlier in the night cleared away. The tiny kitchen was sparkling.

Perched on the end table previously littered with outdated magazines, a bouquet of yellow roses and a box of sweets.

Her eyes turned back to her bed, seeing the tube of ice cream she fell asleep eating missing. The floor scrubbed and shiny where it once sat. She sighed.

Melise hesitated for a moment, then knocked on the bathroom door, silence ensuring.

"Hey, I'm... " she opened the door, seeing a silly mess of paper towel stuffed in Merina's grille as Emla separated more tissues with her tread.

"Really sorry!" Melise squeaked. Emla blew a sigh.

"Honestly, I thought you were gonna throw another tire at us," she joked.

"Bu— why are you here!?" Melise spaced out her tires, emphasizing the suite she was supposed to be alone in.

"We just..." Merina grimaced, cowering in reverse as her grille stung. Melise rolled toward the Benz, ready to help her when Emla pulled forward, "We just wanted to check on you."

"That ugly Jonah guy you're with," Emla continued, her grille basting disgust. "Has he hurt you?"

Melise shook her hood, "He's not here."

"Oh, good. But he hasn't caused any trouble besides that B.S he pulled at the show?"

Melise remembered the event, lucky to be uninjured by their antics. She could still hear their voices as they swooned over one another in the general ward.

"No, nothing more than some bickering between us."

Melise could see Emla driving daggers at her, prying her eyes for signs of dishonesty.

"I don't mean to get into your business," Melise said, "But what else has he... done?"

The red Camry sighed, ready to turn the tables on the Bentley once again.

"He's always chasing around the younger girls in the industry, and making promises with them just so he can get his lugnuts wet."

Melise cringed, caught of by the blunt comment, a simple explanation. She was warned of this before, never catching the details until earlier in the hospital.

"That girl he was with, Jin, she's just trying to get as close as she can to fame."

Emla stiffened, remembering some tales of her own.

"I started rim modelling when I was eighteen," Emla explained, "He was my coach."

"All her did was blackmail and blackmail. If he wasn't making fun of my red glitter, he was sneaking into my room at night to watch me sleep. He would take candid pictures and try to implicate that he was capturing a 'relaxed expression we should wear on the runway'. Just excuses."

Melise was growing discomfort. She kept her sight focussed on Emla, still explaining.

"It was the end when he told me he wouldn't sign my successful photos to a junior magazine because I wouldn't go to his beach house later on."

Melise's lips remained up turned in in a frown.

"And he loves working with racing brands but hates race cars. What a loser." Merina remarked in nasal congestion.

The Honda thought for a moment, she looked at the two, confusion on her hood.

"So you were checking on me, without asking me first!?"

The Camry and Benz exchanged sheepish glances with another.

"We couldn't find you anywhere after you left the show! We decided to just surprise you instead!" Emla remarked, a grin on her grille.

"You looked so upset, and even lost, we just wanted to make sure you were okay! And you left your door unlocked."

Merina glanced to Emla, she nodded as she turned back to Melise.

The convertible's expression suggested she had never relied on such compassion, likely sheltered away from other cars in the world.

"Well," Melise drove into the suite's main room, braking as she rolled over the miniature living room mat. "I don't really know what to think or say right now..."

"I bought microwave popcorn," Merina suddenly said, she quickly cringed at the sting of her battered grille, "We can have a slumber party and talk all about it, huh?"

Melise could feel her resistance against the idea rising. She didn't know these girls, even if they were being friendly. She glanced to the clock, reading two hours past midnight. This was crazy. Still, she bit the inside of her cheek, reluctant to dismiss them.

"We can talk about our lives all night long!" Emla grinned between the door and Melise idling.

With a glance to her bedroom, Melise headed into the space, "I brought raspberry teabags from home, would you like a quart?"

She could hear Merina squeal in delight from the hallway, quickly shushed by Emla.

Melise stretched her stiff axles. Tonight was something else— the entire day was. But this was different, a kind of night she was sure she could remember.

Her thoughts fell on the grey eyed, livery race car rilling up her RPMs. For a moment, she wondered if these two girls knew a thing about him. Better yet, how to get over him.


	34. Sportsmanship

Catching a glimmer of sunlight, the maroon hood of West Gearsley sported a wide smile in the morning sunlight. He watched the facility's garden below his second-storey window. The roses were a magnificent red, giving color to the ominous logo of Liquid Adrenaline.

Today was a good day, magnificent once the memo was received. IGNTR was making profits that sky rocketed up there with Syner-G, even making a close budget to Combustr. Sponsors that fueled the very sport of racing— IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline sharing a hefty sales peak with them. Gearsley was proud of the odds, the very probability merely joke only a year ago.

He recalled the events, remembering look of defeat in a talented rookie's eyes. His frame was already low, but he seemed to sink, if it were possible, even lower that particular day.

Gearsley had approved the hire of several new interns that week. He pinned this as their redeeming chance to showcase intrapersonal skill to the company. Convince a tough talking, angry young racer with a razor-sharp speed statistic to work with IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline. To be fair, it wasn't difficult, the young potential hotshot ate up the opportunity like cool oil on a hot day.

Determination, class, effort and speed. Jackson Storm had all of it. He just needed a track. And true to his talent, he aced the season, earned the big bucks, and helped the expansion.

Gearsley had to admit, the racer could use some gratitude. His concerns of a measly quarter of his pay going to growing merchandise was a small endorsement. In fact, he was to thank for it, and he would be certain to profit from it. A win-win annually, for racer and sponsor alike.

IGNTR's side branch, partnered with Edison Turo's contemporary rim sales was another growing pitch. Cars wanted to dress like their idol, be as fast as him. They paid the dollar for the a-class replicas. In fact, West had received an email about the different color schemes the tires sported, their original midnight blue rim and halo surrounding the outer tread, the colors and styles could differ. He hadn't found the time to truly study the images, but skimmed over them nonetheless.

West heard the revs from his opened window, muffled chatter below as the breeze blew. The CEO relaxed, today was more than likely, a day off.

"You ain't seen nothing," Quincy spoke, his wheels moving faster than Storm accompanying him as they cruised the yard. "You should've seen Racelott in his coverage when they asked about losing to you over and over again."

The forklift turned, "He was speechless. Couldn't retort a thing. Was rich to watch."

Storm's eyes wandered the parking lot across the field, ignoring his pitty, "Where's my personal sim?"

Quincy shrugged his forks, "I dunno. Maybe it's getting maintenance."

"You don't know where my simulator is?"

Quincy put his forks out in defence, "Hey, I was on break these last few days too, Storm. Ray and the rest of the crew's been handling that."

Jackson scanned the lot one more time, "And where's my trailer? Why are all of my stuff gone? I need my simulator, now."

He looked at Quincy, the forklift's front, a bored expression, unfazed by the racer's demands, "What's with the random disorganization all of a sudden?"

Storm watched as Quincy cleared his throat, "I have two answers, one you're gonna hate, and another you're gonna hate some more."

His grey eyes narrowed, "Where's my trailer?" he asked bluntly.

"Ray, Gale and Leo went out for breakfast early this morning while you slept in," he paused for a moment, allowing some dramatic effect to cue, "And they aren't gonna be back till noon."

"What? Are they having lunch in my trailer?" Storm huffed in sarcastic annoyance.

The forklift nearly snorted with laughter, "Nah, Gale dropped it off to get washed and polished."

The race car wasted less than a second to angrily speed past his pitty. He made his way into the facility training building, his expression relaxing as he passed some rookies eying him with awe. Quincy followed, watching him board one of the trainee simulators, the rest empty. Within seconds, Storm was blowing wind as his tires sped up each passing moment. He even collected the tokens designed to help newbie racers balance their lines.

Quincy adverted his attention to a group of trainees watching from a distance.

"Alright, let's clear out, Storm needs his space," the forklift announced.

He watched them leave, some seeming too eager to please Storm with their unnecessary apologies.

Quincy turned to the ambiance of the simulator, the gentle breeze expelled as Storm's tires sped past 208mph.

"You're barely breaking a sweat, I know pushing it past two-hundred-six usually brings on the that game face racers have."

Storm studied the virtual track, "These trainee sims don't have an incline. Not even an opposite force to horsepower against."

Quincy grinned at the racer's vocabulary, "Been listening to Ray's verbal records, huh?"

Jackson pulled his eyes from the track, a side glance to the laughing pitty. After a moment, he turned back to the track, racing the gradient once more.

"It beats hearing about how McQueen's retirement's going."

When noon arrived, Ray pushed open the doors of the training building, expecting to find the class of six rookies transferred from Combustr's relay cup. More youngsters, fast, confident, hopefully fearless. He scanned the empty room, finding only a steaming simulator. Ray approached, inspecting the machinery. He turned it on, seeing the monitor state it was overheated, and still attempting to cool down.

Jackson wasn't here, but Ray could bet he was responsible for this. No rookie could break a B-class piece of efficient technology. It had to be an engine refined to A-level veneer.

Heading to the main building, a livery black race car was spotted pacing in the foyer. His eyes listened to something Quincy said, soon a grin spread on his front, and he replied a placid remark, the two enjoyed the company momentarily.

Ray braked, undecided on disrupting. It was clear the two were making the most of the time. Jackson's glance focussed on the window, looming on the appearance of his polished toys taken from him for a few hours. He was good this way. Socializing with others, even if he didn't want to. A good racer had good exposure. It had been a year, just over another half working with Storm. It was normal to ease into the spotlight of interviews— he took them when he wanted, when he knew he had the upper end. He was mature and sharp, then, impressing his fans.

It didn't always work that way, he'd have to learn the improvising art when things went haywire, and stamp it to the back of his tread, sooner or later.

Quincy yawned loudly, his extrapolating wail heard from the outside of the transparent twin doors.

Jackson's attention turned elsewhere as his stoical wait was slowly wearing thin. His eyes loomed over the building interior, spotting his crew chief with so much as a thin raise of his lid.

He headed over, wheels moving quickly, followed closely by his personal pitty, "Put me in the wind tunnel."

Ray raised a lid in surprise, racers were never eager to go into the wind tunnel. He could still recall Jackson grimacing as dust and dirt clogged his air filter when he was just a trainee.

"He's full of energy," Quincy remarked.

"We don't have to overexert ourselves in wind tunnel exercises," Ray explained, making eye contact with the dull stare of his racer, "Qualifiers aren't something to rush."

"I've relaxed enough," Jackson argued, uninterested in schedules, "get the tunnel prep'ed. The usual."

Ray watched Storm head off. He was still far from figuring out this guy. Jackson was cold as ice in the morning, potentially hot as magma in the evening, He could be furious behind a grinning façade, or celebrating with a neutral lip of boredom.

The crew chief could hardly feel proud of having little time to bond with his racer. Jackson seemed to feel the interactions past guidance on the track were unnecessary. He was perfectly content bottled up in his dim trailer, Ray didn't like to admit as of lately, he preferred it that way. Less hassle, less confrontation.

Reverham entered the darkened room, courtesy of computer-generated mechanics. The pick-up truck's engine hummed in the silence as he approached the LED-lit tunnel. Jackson tapped his tire, the treadmill holding him still. He waited patiently for his crew chief to push his buttons.

"Turn it on, let's get this over with," Jackson's voice echoed through the vacant clear-glass cylinder.

"Alright," Ray replied, inputting the specific stats required for a champion's caliber.

The large fans began rumbling, blowing a grey trail of tint over the racer's frame. With each second, the knots increased each second, doubling its initial speed.

Ray watched as Jackson bared his teeth briefly, his eyes squinting tightly as his tires spun towards the optimum line. The chief wasn't concerned, he had seen the former rookie struggle till sleep was eating him to maintain his drag efficiently.

The shift in pressure caused Storm to close his eyes and rev against the blowing gale force. Within seconds, he was muscling past the kinetic displacement, his line neat and efficient.

Jackson quickly noticed Ray's face coated with impression.

"Hardly a setback," Jackson said aloud, his voice clear through the loud speaker. He merged slightly, easily manœvering the increasing change.

"These new systems have the ability to simulate a tropical storm... including the rain," Ray announced.

Storm gave him a side glance, "Not even a big deal," he boasted. Reverham adjusted the meteorological simulation and the fresh water began drizzling the tunnel walls.

He watched as Jackson squinted through the messy conditions, his speed slowed a fraction as water pelted his windshield. Ray watched silently a few minutes as Storm clocked in at 199mph, he swerved suddenly at times, his wheels generating smoke and kicking up water as he picked up his traction. Severe weather was no cruise down the street, especially for a car that hardly encountered it.

Some peeping sedans hovered the garage window, creating an obvious dimming of fluorescent light reaching the dark training room. Ray's mirror's flickered, catching Jackson's curious fans huddling away at its corners.

A heavy and sudden rev pulled his attention back to his racer. Jackson's focus was clear as he straightened his frame with might alone. He continued to squint through the steady rainstorm, hardly a swerve or bend as he picked up speed, racing up 206mph.

"Is that all this thing's got?" Jackson shouted through the wind.

"Be realistic, the race track doesn't have hurricane winds." Ray replied. He watched Jackson ignore the comment, his attention engulfed in the artificial squall

The screens read green— optimal. The exception remained in an amber flicker of caution on traction, a normal read for the advanced weather conditions.

The system ended its timed operation, allowing Storm out of the tunnel.

"Burned off enough steam?" Ray asked.

"It was a piece of cake. Easy said and done," Jackson remarked, hardly out of breath, rounding the short ramp up to his crew chief. His tires trailed water dripping off his frame. He glanced to the screen, indifferent to to his pleasing statistics.

He headed for the exit, obviously done with his activities.

"Storm,"

Jackson swung into a U-turn, he eyed his crew chief calling him.

"What's this tirade all about?" Ray asked.

Jackson's grey eyes searched the pick-up truck's.

"I don't need you to play house with me," he replied after moment.

"All in the job as your crew chief. It's my role to play house with the whole team."

Storm scoffed, Ray expected it.

"Your agent is back," Ray commented, seeing Jackson begin to digest the new information.

"Okay... and?" Jackson continued, losing interest in prying conversations.

"Your trailer's parked out back," Ray drove ahead of him to the garage exit.

Storm watched the truck leave without another word. He enjoyed the silence for a moment, quickly finding the interaction odd. Ray was prone to lecturing, that wasn't the case.

When Jackson made his way to his trailer, he was relaxed, his eyes half open and indifferent to the hazy afternoon. He was used to this kind of weather. No sudden changes, just lasting mild conditions.

He blew out a breath once, the cool water from his recent run still giving a good adrenaline rush.

The garage his trailer sat in was void of any faces. No pitties, no driver, and no prancing fans.

His mouth curled at the corner slightly, pleasant with the reality. His crew was getting better at their roles each day.

Entering the shaded space, Storm pulled around to the back, tapping his tire rhythmically as the ramp came down slowly. Within mere seconds, his personal in-van phone chimed, its default ringing raising a lid on Storm.

Grey eyes scanned over the caller ID, hardly recognizing the name of 'T. Rodrigez', his personal agent, back from months of little contact.

"... Stormer? 'Ya there!?" a voice, native to Rhode Island with its twang, boomed in excitement.

The racer almost wished he ignored the call.

Jackson exhaled, "Yea—"

"Good! That's good!" Rodrigez chimed, "Now lets get back to business!"

Jackson hardly rolled his eyes, instead blinking slowly as he listened, half interested.

"Hmm, lemme think about it for a minute," his agent said, a hint of sarcasm in his tone, "cut the B.S."

"I got cars talkin', you know they love to talk. You ain't giving your competitors something to chew on."

Jackson could feel the annoyance peaking. What was he even talking about?

"What?" the racer replied, half confused.

"The trashing, the lack of smilin', no damn sportsmanship!" Rodrigez remarked gruffly, "I got Racelott, Mixon, Swervez, Wheelhouse— better approval ratings than you right now. And some of these guys ain't been on the track nearly as long—"

"Where have you been all this time?" Jackson scoffed.

"Tryin' to keep your bumper outta hot track oil! I got you interviews with Hicks, you don't care to do 'em. I get you some signings, you're too busy. I phone up Ray— guy's doin' the best he can to put you in line. You got a reputation! I got a reputation!"

"I'm aware," Storm replied easily, "I don't need favors, just roll and smile while everyone else cheers until they get an engine block. Got it."

"We ought to fix this, now," his voice began falling calm, "McQueen's retired bumper has better ratings than yours, too. Learn from it. Lemme make some calls, get some schedules goin'. Later— I'm done."

Jackson was quick to tap the red button, ending the call. The frustration settled in as he reversed into the air conditioned trailer. If it wasn't his crew, it was the Network, if it wasn't the Network, it was Chick's Picks, if it wasn't that spaced-out green racer car, it was loud, unruly fans.

The hatch closed, keeping out sunlight in its shaded interior.

The racer stretched his axles out, flexing the suspension with a deep exhale. He had one thought on his mind, to avoid any interviews. None of that, at least not now.

The CEO was at the Champion's VIP party. He saw those maroon doors on a grinning front from the other end of the hall. If he actually witnessed the crossed interaction between himself and Rūūnes, the odds of harsh discipline were imminent. Scratch that, if anyone saw it. Words and interactions were always twisted at the seams.

Then the large SUV with his clear role of security, the guy just butted in, as if she could possibly harm someone with those small, non-racing axles. It didn't help that Treadless wanted to be some knight-in-shining-armour either.

Jackson swallowed the urge to find a simulator. His was shipped off, the others too weak for his liking. He had better things, necessities, to work on.

For a moment, the racer slumped into further thought. He passed her over to Treadless, as if the guy that could only beat him once in a software game was worth her time. Peaches didn't need to look for something to impress her, she already found it when she watched him win timelessly. Treadless was wasting his time if he actually took up the offer.

Storm quickly retracted the idea. She was one of those cars that kept to themselves, away from others' business. At least, usually. Jackson had to appreciate that. His life was filled with pushy vehicles left and right.

She was impressed, he was interested.

Yeah, he said some things that likely caused her to speed home crying, but she should've showed up invited. Next time. Lose the wild makeup and paintjobs... then she could have all the cookies she wanted.

Her comments were unexpected. She could have sounded like a preppy student, but she didn't. Not a speck of boasting was in her tone as she parked herself in his paystub. She had some nerve, the good kind— but in the wrong place and time.

He glanced back to the speakerphone, its screen displaying the mid noon clock as its screensaver. The number his crew left was to her home, or shop, wherever, but not here.

Jackson would have to devise some strategy, a crafty string of words. Nothing difficult, but the tension wearing strong on perfection.

He was Jackson Storm, fastest racer in the Piston Cup Racing Series, still racking up wins. He had cars, ones that could spend their time jotting his priorities on expensive paper.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon. The angle the sun situated in burned heat into the mini living room.

She had pulled the curtains closed, finding the UV rays shining directly on a sleeping pair of coupes. In front of them, several discarded teabags, the sticky, sweetened ring of raspberry steeped tea around a cooled down quart jug.

Melise kept her movements around the suite quiet as she tidied the long night of escapades. Her wheel reached for a corner of the terrace curtain seeping sunlight in. She leaned forward without leverage, bumping her left fender against the wall, the familiar discreet pain returning for only a moment. She bit her bottom lip, and puffed out her cheeks, attention quickly turning to the shuffling red Camry, hardly disturbed.

Merina's sudden stretch of her axle punched the tea jug over. Melise watched,

wide-eyed at the sudden scare as the pitcher gurgled the remaining pink tea across the white tiles. Her eyes trailed up, seeing the two still sound asleep, Merina snoring softly after muttering incoherent words aloud.

Melise didn't blame them. Although, she was hardly expecting them to fall asleep in the living room of her suite. It was adorable, different, but not really unsettling. It would have been more natural to see Jonah, maybe even room service tidying. Instead, she was embraced with the compassion of two competitors.

She relaxed for a moment, feeling some of her own fatigue arriving. The quiet atmosphere of the white tailored tropical theme kept Melise in a tranquil comfort. She loved change, different expectations each day.

After some minutes. Merina opened her weary eyes to the Honda headed into the bathroom, a pale rosy-orange blob closing the door. The Benz blinked a few times, adjusting her sight.

She stretched, her eyes turning to the opaque yellow glow on the closed curtains, "Geez, what time is it?"

Emla didn't hear or stir, her patterns of breathing remaining neutral.

Merina inhaled the sweet scent of left over traces of raspberry tea. The small end table was vacant of tea cups, the mess left last night swiftly cleaned.

In the bathroom, Melise focussed on her reflection, attempting to briefly ignore it, but curiosity getting the better end. Her doe brown eyes blinked twice, the rose tint on her fenders giving some life to the peach fibreglass that seemed to fade under the peeking sunlight. Her plump lips remained comfortably together, her expression mostly blank.

She felt plain, boring to look at. Her eyes trained on the grey print, still clearly stained on her fender.

 _'Stay Peachy'_

Maybe the choice of wardrobe for the catwalk wasn't so appealing to him. Melise was biting her lip, ready to rub her eyelids. The sticky residue of eyelash adhesive was still left in traces. Her eyes themselves feeling heavier than they looked in the mirror. She had showered off the entire angel-wagon costume, but it's embarrassing qualities from that night were still fresh. Melise turned on the shower, the steam vapor began relaxing her in the confined space.

Emla's eyes opened only slightly, wearily studying the golden sunlit glow of the white suite. The noise beside her caught her attention.

Merina arrived back to her side, parking herself with a neatly plain trimmed envelope.

"What is that?" the red Camry asked, still slumped on her undercarriage.

"I don't know," Merina replied, "Probably our stills from the practice run."

Echoes of a high-pitched scream caused the warm water to suddenly feel cold. Melise paused a moment, unsure. She glanced to the door, no knock or disturbance heard. Her RPM's began to race as she squeezed herself out of the shower, and tossed a large towel on her roof, the fabric covering her cab and tires. Melise pulled the door open slightly, peeking into the suite living room where she had left the two coupes.

"Is everything okay?" she called, seeing only the corner of light blue cab from the bathroom's angle.

"Did anything come with it?" Emla asked, her voice quiet.

"No, nothing else, just... this!" Merina replied gleefully.

Melise headed into the room, unsure of what to make of the commotion. The two coupes quickly focussed on her. Merina's grin from fender to fender. Emla's expression suspicious after she looked elsewhere, thinking.

"Look what came in the mail for _yoou_ ," Merina sung sweetly, sliding a plain tailored envelope to the convertible. Melise glanced to the paper silently, her first and last name scribbled neatly on it.

"What is this?" she asked softly, fearful to open it.

"Probably a cheque!" Merina piqued.

"Or worse..." Emla replied, bitter in her tone.

Melise nervously bit her bottom lip, pulling the flap open with weight of her tread, a light blue folded sheet of paper held inside.

Merina watched ecstatically as the Honda read the paper, her eyes following each word silently. Emla focussed her blunt stare on Melise's incoming reaction.

Her brown eyes turned slowly to the two cars watching her. A blank look on her front, rose rising above her headlights.

"What _even_ is that? What did it say!?" Emla reached for the paper, sliding it in front of her.

"She got asked out!" Merina couldn't hold her silence any longer. Melise raised her lid slightly her way, realizing she had snooped the personal letter.

"Mister Jackson Storm cordially invites—"

"JACKSON STORM!?" the Camry's eyes shot up in surprise. She gave Melise a wide-eyed look. The convertible returned a frown.

Emla continued reading, "cordially invites you to a private evening today at Isle Maro. He asks that you please dress casually in peach, and arrive at 8:45 PM in the back hall. Additionally, it is highly advised that no guests accompany, as security is on standby to escort them away."

She rolled her eyes.

"Best Regards,

IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline™ pencars."

Merina squealed again, "She got asked out!" the Benz sung.

Emla gave her friend an annoyed look. She turned to Melise, clearly unsure how to feel about it. The convertible placed the towel on the end table in front.

"Melissa, this is an official invite, it has the symbol and logos engraved on it," she stated.

"It's Melise," she corrected softly, "I don't know why he would..." she eyed the invitation, her thoughts steaming.

"Who's Jackson Storm, anyway?" Merina asked, lost in the confusion.

Emla turned to her, "A race car. A very fast one."

"Seriously!? An athlete!?" Merina asked, curiosity brimming. Emla stared at her for a moment longer, stunned.

"You've never heard of Jackson Storm?" she asked with a blunt tone, "He's one of the Piston Cup Racing Series' athletes— you know, the greyish-black race car with the eerie blue decals that's on a winning streak? He's the guy that beat Lightning McQueen out of the sport."

Melise watched the two bicker about the race car, Emla adding that he was one of the racers without a southern accent, attempting to enunciate Jackson's clear, mostly articulate, tone. Merina laughed as the Camry turned her attention back to Melise.

"You know Jackson Storm?" she asked, "briefly looking over the grey autograph on her faded peach fibreglass."

"Um, not really. I met him onc—"

"You met him!?" the Benz hollered loudly.

"When!?" Emla toned her voice down to a whisper.

Melise exchanged glances between the two, "When I worked as an oil runner a few months ago," she answered calmly, trying to be the difference.

"Okay! This day is already wild!" Emla drove around the end table, "Let's order some breakfast and talk all about it. Come on."

"But it's the afternoon, Em'," Merina said, following the Camry and convertible out of the suite.

"So then it's brunch," Melise replied with a sweet smile. She locked the door behind her.

Emla lead the way, watching through her mirrors as Melise scanned the empty hallway, likely looking for any sign of her filthy mentor. As far as the Camry was concerned, she was better off without him.

"So," her red cab tilted, "He looks like a gashole."

"Jackson?" Melise inquired knowingly, "He's not really so mean..."

Emla huffed once, "That's not what I heard."

Melise looked down to the floor, keeping her lips sealed. She couldn't exactly fight the truthful statement.

The trio exited the hotel. Melise steadily following the two into a diner. She watched as they chatted, seemingly used to each other's company, and the setting.

The convertible pulled up to the table, parking herself with them.

"Merina, this time, don't order more than you can eat," Emla lectured.

"Think about your own food, not mine," Merina retorted, her eyes narrowing.

The Camry glanced to Melise, seeing her expression dull, her lids closed half-way, eyes downcast. She was pondering.

"You said you met him when you worked on the track," her treads pushed a quart closer, she nibbled the straw, "What was that like?"

Melise straightened herself, "Well, I... "

She sighed once, glancing to some palm trees swaying in the distant breeze. Transfixion on the invitation weighing heavy on her thoughts.

"I met him by accident—not by crashing into him, or anything like that!" she shook her tires in defence, the unintentional comment causing the coupes to raise their lids in confusion.

"Well, I don't quite remember it, but I got carried away, and I cheered too loudly for him when he raced. And he heard it."

Merina thought for a moment, "From the pits, or whatever it's called?"

Emla frowned, a dumbfounded look on her hood, "No Merina, she cheered on him from outer space, that's why he heard it."

Merina stared back, a mutual annoyance in response.

"To be fair, the races are very loud, I think he heard me through his crew chief's headset."

Emla took a moment to gather her thoughts, "So then you hung out afterwards?"

"We're not allowed to do that," Melise replied low. "But I went where I wasn't supposed to with... a friend. The VIP places in the hotels."

She stopped talking for a moment as the waiter, a white Civic, delivered buttered bread to their table, "I just went to far, I should've stayed out of his way. He was doubted and shunned before he even arrived on his first race... "

"Stay calm, Melise, don't beat yourself up," Merina offered her sympathy.

"What happened after that?" Emla asked.

"He wasn't angry, not at all rude," Melise glanced to her autograph, "He gave me his signature."

Merina cooed as she looked at the grey print in interest.

Melise felt better once the story was out, she could breath some relief.

"Weren't you caught in some scuffle outside of his trailer?" Emla asked. Her bold statement met with blunt force.

The table fell silent as the red Camry eyed Melise suspiciously. Blush rose to the convertible's fenders.

She hung her hood in shame, "Yes," she answered in a small voice.

The shimmery red paint of Emla's cab sparkled as she narrowed her eyes once more. Merina and Melise perplexed by the reaction.

"I heard he shoved you."

"He _actually_ shoved her? I thought some camera guy ran into her." Merina inquired, exchanging glances with the two.

"He didn't shove me at all! He was trying to help me," Melise answered curtly, "Who told you that!?"

"One news site said that, but I don't doubt it after seeing how rude that Jackson Storm guy is."

Melise could feel her RPM's racing. It made news? Even if it was minor, why was she only finding out now, several weeks later?

"So he signed your fender," she took a sip of her oil latte, "does that make him as nice as The King all of a sudden?"

Melise chewed her bottom lip, remember some stares she received the days following. She almost forgot about the embarrassing mishap until Jonah and Emla reminded her. In fact, it seemed to be a different version each time.

"I crashed—I mean bumped! _Bumped_ into him while he was practicing. I hurt my headlight, and he just wanted to bandage it."

"I bet he was a jerk about it..."

"In fact, he was," Melise answered honestly with her tread under her front. Her tone was it's usual ambiance, making the blunt comment sound simple and unnerving.

"I mean, I did crash— I mean bump, into him."

The trio fell silent a moment longer. Their food soon arriving.

"So," Merina began, "Are you going to go to see him?"

"Even if he's a gashole?" Emla chimed in.

Melise frowned once more. The question scaring her. She couldn't muster the idea of how he could possibly want to see her after upsetting him with her recent escapades.

"What did you see him do to give him the title of 'gashole'?" she asked.

"Well, he's just so cocky on camera, and he never hangs out with the other race cars, his smile is full of it too."

Merina nodded quickly with her mouth full, finishing her chewing, Melise glanced her way, anticipating the reply.

"Yeah, we just pick up on the vibe. Usually, the racers are friendly with each other. He's never around them, and they're never around him. You can see it on T.V!"

"That must have been the most intellectual thing you've said all day, Merina." Emla giggled.

Melise thought the odds over. She knew they're observation were spot on. Jackson Storm was a cold car, sometimes bitter to the core of his circuits. But he was also all around, laid back too. He was a racer, beating off the likes of traditional racing leagues, maybe there was a reason to be so arrogant. Maybe.

No, she couldn't spin it. Melise knew better than that. Jackson was doing great. He just needed a track and a victory lap. He was bitter because he didn't expect a simple girl to take some of his thunder. Likely other things in his personal life. That was it.

Her thoughts began to displace themselves. Melise could remember the calm gaze on his grey eyes. The relaxing blinks as he listened to her. The way he was confident, respectful, stoic. For a time, she was certain he would call her a moron for acting like a shy school girl. She wasn't used to talking much. His patience was thinly veiled under a curl of his mouth, but his priorities told him otherwise. He came after her, twice, maybe even three times if she could count her former coworkers horrified dashes out of the barren stadium once Jackson raced in.

Her heart began to sink, the feeling growing as she saw the neatly trimmed letter. Jackson called her weird, maybe it he was trying to compliment her. She didn't beckon the actions much then, just interactions. He likely thought the same.

But Melise missed them. Not just the words, but his expressions, his awkward raise of his lid when she said something about garden ornaments, his eyes as they trailed around the features on her model as she exchanged glances from him to random scenery. Social nerves while she spoke. She couldn't admit it to herself, not a thing about it could make sense. She didn't much belong in his way, but he didn't seem to mind her there— at least, now. He was one of a kind; in fact, the convertible could hear the words coming out of his own sonorous voice. Not just referencing himself, but about her too.

Melise didn't answer, instead, breathing a gentle sigh. Her fenders flushed, her lips bent in a frown. Her eyes remained their characteristic doe, the brown seeming to shine.

"Why don't we just finish eating?" Emla said, changing the atmosphere.

"I want to order seconds," Merina piqued, "This time I'll finish it all!"

The sun was setting at six. Melise, alone to her stress, nearly dosed off several times. She sprawled out her ties, her undercarriage flat against her own coverlet. The day flew by when you spent time doing something with it.

She saw each missed call, recognizing the same private ID, the only one who she knew to call her.

The mirror across reflected a lost Honda. Her fibreglass glowing in the glint of orange sun rays. No one else came to see her, the feeling of disassociation in making friends haunted her. She wanted the coupes back in her company, despite the two only leaving a short while ago.

She was all alone again.

The phone chimed it's ring, the brief moment ignored as her eyes focussed on the soothing glow of a tropical sunset.

Melissa snapped from her daydream, seeing the same number phoning her again. This time, she was around to answer it.

"Melise!?"

She smiled gently to herself, the action alone a summary of gratitude.

"I'm okay, Mister Turo." she answered softly.

The Hummer sighed relief, "He informed me that he went to the hospital. You weren't there for him?" Turo's voice questioned her without malice. He was curious of her intentions.

"I… no. I didn't go."

"Melise," he called on, "Are you feeling okay? Nothing is broken?"

She shook her hood in redundancy, "Nothing's broken."

Listening on, Melise couldn't imagine any sort of expression the CEO could have. Her muddled thoughts sealing much of the reality around her.

"He's not here, and I don't know where he could be, but prefer it this way."

Melise didn't bother keeping her concerns at bay. She didn't need Jonah, not anymore. He never needed her.

"You're still both a team, I know those other girls run their lives alone, and it may make you feel inclined to do the same, but you're just too young, Melise."

Her lips tugged into a frown, hood slumping.

"Make sure you guys re-group, I don't want either of you to get hurt again. Watch out for each other."

The call ended alongside a breeze blowing the terrace curtains. Orange rays blinding her for a moment as the fabric returned to its position.

Melise didn't have to worry. She wasn't going to be tortured, no anger could come out of a peaceful setting. What was he going to do?

Maybe he could make fun of her roof designed to match her metal? Talk about how she woofed down fries, milkshakes and cookies like a starving tractor? He could say every word Emla had in her idea book.

He understood her place now, but accepting it was one thing Melise and Emla could agree on, non-existent.

He was being a gashole because he could. Even if the odds weren't in his immediate favor, he would bend it how he pleased.

The last name fit.


	35. Eventually

She looked depressed. Her hood aiming downward at the stream below the bridge she parked herself on. She liked gardens, scenery, the places where cars could only hear the breeze ruffling leaves and such. No inner city traffic or horns.

Maybe she liked the odd fish that swam by, that sort of stuff excited her. Too bad most of them were sleeping at this hour. She was just buying the time.

He rolled forward, seeing her expression cascading some reflecting moonlight. Her eyes were starry as she shifted her weight, looking his way. That same pure stare.

"Some fans wanted signatures," Jackson stated simply, explaining his five minute tardiness, looking over her form.

"It's okay," Melise answered, "I was just... daydreaming here."

"As usual," he replied.

She was peach again. Good.

She breathed a shaky sigh after a moment, moving along the grass off the small bridge, "I like the scenery."

"I know." he said, another simple reply.

She didn't mumble anything more as she cruised slowly. The racer's engine was bored with the slow movement, following along silently.

Newly installed pot lights lit the path, surrounding trees keeping the light from scattering the scenic acres.

She bit her lip as she fought the urge to look through her mirrors.

"Do I have to stamp on another autograph?" Jackson asked, "I know being in the presence of a champion can cause shock. I don't blame you."

Melise braked in the three way branch of the trail, the racer approaching at a speed slower than her. She looked at him, his same half-closed confident glance.

"It is impressive— is, isn't it?" She stuttered, her voice barely a whisper. Her eyes were everywhere.

"You talked a lot yesterday, can't find your voice today?" his comment sounded more like harmless sarcasm than blunt contempt.

Her mouth opened only slightly before he cut her off.

"Take it easy," he stated, picking up on her anxiousness.

Melise inhaled, "It's easier to move around with my doughnut tires on now."

Jackson raised a lid, looking the small wheels over, "that's what you call your tires? Doughnuts?"

"Yes, because they're soft and boucy, like wearing doughnuts."

His expression remained twisted as he calculated her sentence.

"Keep them on," he commented, "better than the knock-offs you had on last time."

She smiled to herself, the racer mouth curling at the side as she ate up the comment, either amusement or fluster, maybe both. No one else could make her smile like that, he was certain of it.

"Good thing my paint is normally peach," she said with a nervous tone. She was trying.

"Good thing." He replied.

He lead the way down the right trail, keeping his headlights off despite the dimming natural light. His decals seemed to glow, or reflect light, she still wasn't sure which was correct. This conversation couldn't stay dull, she had to spice it up.

"Jackson? I think... you're lucky! Like your friend said."

She saw him slow down, not looking her way, "Because I won all the races? You're gonna congratulate me again?" he asked, bored.

"No," her voice grew smaller, her tone trying to project out of nervousness,

"Because... you get to hang out with a cute car like me."

Her words came out with some confidence. A sweet smile on her features as he swiveled into a U-turn, lid raised in rare surprise.

"What?"

"That's what he said right? The Revolutions Per Minute sponsored race car?" Melise continued to smile. She was bold enough.

Jackson looked her up and down, focussing last on her eyes, "He said ' _Angel_ ', but I guess the terms are the same."

She laughed sweetly. Her assertive mood falling slowly into place.

The racer pulled up to a wide, spacious veranda. He parked himself, somewhat indifferent to the view. After a moment, Jackson turned, seeing the convertible timid to approach.

"What is that sound?" Melise asked listening to the steady crash against the plateau.

"It's water." Jackson answered flatly, "You know, waves?"

The ocean. She couldn't see much of a thing as she squinted from the distance.

"Are you scared of this?" he asked, his tone resonating amusement.

Melise approached, cautious as the noise grew louder, Jackson watched her with a sly grin, capturing each second of her star struck reaction to the scene ahead.

A breathtaking gasp escaped her mouth, and she paused in her tracks, watching the ripples reflect streetlights. Stray drops of water sprayed up a mist.

"This is the kind of stuff you like, right?" Jackson exchanged a glance from her to the high tide below.

"I knew you lived under a rock, so seeing the ocean for the first time must be a highlight."

"Jackson?"

"Now what?" he answered slow, eyes narrow, and still on the water.

"Why are we doing this?"

He gave her a quizzical look.

Melise exhaled, "How did this all happen?" she asked, careful not to stir him with questions.

"Did you forget screaming across the track?" he retorted back, "You threw me off my line for a second, but I still beat the old timers."

He stared her down for a second, a stern look on his features despite his immediate thoughts, "Probably asked this already, why did you do that?"

"There was a lot of doubt—" he rolled closer to hear her shy voice, "and I didn't hear anyone rooting for you. At least then, I thought, why not?"

"Thanks." he said after a long stare her way.

Melise was grateful for the sounds of crashing waves, keeping the silence from drowning in. She couldn't tell if he was bored or not. He always had a simple array of faces he made.

"Should we go back, now?"

"We just got out here, now you want to go back?" Jackson gave her an incredulous look at the question. He came closer, her brakes locked despite herself.

His wheels aligned alongside her, only inches apart. He breathed a relaxed sigh, eyes focussed on the dark view.

When a cooled down breeze passed, Melise closed her lids, trying to make relief of the moment.

Her tire was pulled moderately, and her axle could only stretch so far. Melise kept her eyes closed tightly, afraid of the reality. Her fender was cushioned against someone, and he wasn't going to let go of her inner tread just yet.

A second of silence passed, and he tugged her gently and closer, letting most of her weight lean on him. Jackson gauged her reaction with each second, seeing she was seemingly in a haze, accepting, but her mind in a maze. She was good here, it kept her quiet— no more silly questions.

She didn't do that thing where she chewed her bottom lip. Her cab was tense, nervous and anxious. He didn't have to ask her about it. He didn't just run into cars like her for no reason.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asked, the simply sentence more of a rhetorical statement. He already knew.

"For a moment yesterday, I was certain you would be angry forever." Melise murmured.

"I thought you wished we would have never met." she choked.

He didn't reply. She wanted to forget it too.

Jackson felt her shuffle her weight slightly, and she snuggled in closer, her warm and soft exhale on his fender. She still felt like a pillow.

"How's your light?" he remembered.

"Much better," she murmured, "How is your track record?"

He scoffed, "Perfect."

She giggled, leaning away in the throwaway moment. He smirked, pulling her back to him.

"Do you have to be so full of it?" her voice was sweet. The usual.

"What do I possibly have to lose?" his tone suggested it as a matter of fact.

That was him, this was Jackson Storm. Nothing he said was much of an understatement. Sometimes he tossed in extra jabs for effect, but he was, at the very least, honest.

Glancing down, she seemed to think about it. She couldn't really come up with a response. Her nerves never seemed to settle, no matter how hard she tried to remain calm. She wasn't used to this, and he expected nothing less.

Jackson's eyes trailed towards some stray headlights down the far end of the deck. He was hardly concerned, he was an icon after all, he could never really hide from them.

"Was that a fish?" Melise watched the water splash gently, the darkness keeping both cars from seeing much.

"Probably." Jackson replied, watching her eyes search the dimmed sea for a moment.

"You've never seen a fish either."

Melise glanced up to him, her cheek squishing endearingly against his metal, "Only the ones inside an aquarium."

He scoffed lightly, a single chuckle as he shook his hood.

"Imagine being lost at sea... way out there," she spoke, dreamily, "If you looked in every direction, all you would see is more water on the horizon."

"That's weird." he said after a moment of watching her eyes suggest the thought was genuine curiosity.

She reversed a few inches, freeing herself from his grasp, "It's kind of like being on a endless race track?"

Melise watched Jackson's eyes narrow coolly as he glanced her way. After a second, he flexed his mouth, "It's nothing like it, but I'll let your imagination run wild."

Her eyes twinkled, and she giggled through pursed lips. When her eyes opened, Jackson was still studying her with a refreshing relaxation. Melise froze, her nerves still rocketing the entire night. He was making a different— somewhat invigorated, face. She wasn't sure how to feel, the anxiousness getting the best of her.

He looked above her roof, his eyes scanning briefly. Melise kept herself is submission, her doe eyes anticipating the inevitable. Jackson's glance focussed back on her, he moved forward a few inches watching her lips with the same cool, ease.

Melise's breathing quickened, the high-pitch gasp came, and Jackson stopped, looking back to her eyes.

"Do you want me to stop?"

Her lids were raised high, feeling the cold mint he exhaled on her as his mouth made very light contact, practically a graze.

"Y-You haven't d-done anything, yet."

"You're right," his sonorous voice replied very close. He straightened his heavy axles, pulling away.

"That's why I'm not going to do it."

Melise gasped, anxious, nervous, and now, confused. Her peach fenders became rosy and embarrassment heaved her insides. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or mortified.

"Relax," he continued, eying her, checking her out up and down, "I've got my reasons. Besides, someone's watching."

Melise hardly heard him, her thoughts still flat lined. Her lips quivered timidly.

"When you go back to that dingy suite of yours, make sure you lock the doors for once."

"Wh… why?"

"It's getting too easy to send you stuff," he answered, "I'm a world-class race car, known everywhere I go, and it's harder to send me stuff."

He watched as she seemed to ignore the message, coming closer. He didn't back away as her plump lips pressed against his left headlight. The move was gentle, half sweet, half masked anxiousness.

It only lasted a second before she pulled away, her tires reversing slow as her hood was down casted in passiveness. Jackson deserved it.

He stared at her, lost and perplexed all over again, "Don't do that without asking me, again." His tone wasn't too resilient, just a statement.

"Sorry."

"Stop apologizing, too."

"Sorry for apologizing too much."

He blew a sigh, staring her down with calm narrow eyes. Jackson didn't regret meeting her one bit. She was never a dull moment, even when she was dull.


	36. And Now I Know

_**author's note:** _ hi there! I cannot believe I haven't been able to update for you in an entire month! Sorry about that guys, I'm treading deep waters with this story, and trying to convey each chapter for you with a time crunch n my own hands!

I love writing this story for you, especially when Jackson is a character (somehwat Tim Treadless is similar) that can be molded into different situations based on a small basis if their personality from novels or the film alone. Stay tuned!

* * *

Old conversations were the oil and gas of publicity. It began with a pushy sedan begging for a racer's attention, then cameras would zone in on the five-second moment, and the world of gas-guzzling common cars would have at.

How long had it been, an hour? He lost count of the steady rumbles under his tires. The awkward tension when she came in close, he shooed her away, the temptation was the last thing he wanted. He was in control, no one else.

The place had a ridiculous name, it tried too hard to sound extravagant. The building itself was no larger than a single storey house. Some diner it was, the place was closed, but the patio lot was open at his redeeming request.

It wasn't really a setting to look at, but she liked this stuff. Jackson didn't bring her here to dip her tires in caviar, but his sponsors were keen to presentation and etiquette. Rūūnes appearance alone was brave, she didn't have a true clue of what to expect, yet here she was, naturally dished. Her eyes caught sight of something that interested that wild imagination of hers, and she crept the board way with poise he wasn't sure he saw enough of.

A mature grace— the best she could muster— and confidence in her body language cued from her distance as her tires lacked their dainty frail she often came with. Her chassis was steady, and she rolled with elegance. She would likely do that nibbling of her lip as she chased down her desires. She did that kind of thing when she was nervous— better yet, all the time.

Instead, her lips parted in a circle, her eyes became ecstatic as she studied something impossibly interesting flopping in the waves.

Jackson fought the urge to interrupt her. She was too pure for her own good, she had the little things that told him what was left unsaid, actions that made more than just her paint glow.

The nearby ocean still kept the air chilly, and he could see her trying to play off her shivering. The rubber of her wheels squeaked and ruffled gravel whenever her cab rocked, the movement heating up her delicate engine.

Jackson could practically hear his agent now, congratulating him. The annoying accent was almost vivid as the race car narrowed down the cheap perks: green light for wins, amber for the Press, red for the fans— something like that. It was another go-to formula, one that was even more dull than the data Ray tossed for optimum racing lines. A ridiculous formula for life. He could shake the thought of chatting with his manager now, but it wouldn't be the last of hearing it.

Melise felt the nerves unprepared to relax. She was out of place, awkwardly left alone as the racer collected his muddled thoughts. She had moved out of line by touching him, she tried to keep her embarrassment at bay, he would have had her tossed out already if a kiss to the fender was that invasive. Nonetheless, it was out of character for her, and she couldn't seem to find the answers to heal her little heart.

It didn't help that the air was cold, the place was growing unexciting, but the eyes finally resting on her told another story.

Her mirror's adjusted, reflecting an unwavered, grey gaze her way. The race car was studying something fascinating that wasn't the ocean behind her. She turned abruptly, Storm's attention hardly shameful as he kept his gaze fixed on her, a slight curl on his mouth, his lids further relaxed. He was a natural when he was leading.

Melise blinked twice, she exchanged a glance with the water once, then rolled cautiously towards the racer. He was relaxed again.

"I think I saw a marlin," she mumured, a sweet smile grazed her lips.

"A what?"

"A marlin." she spoke louder.

Jackson nodded his hood once, "Huh, yeah, I guarantee watching a fish do nothing is really interesting."

His eyes almost completed a roll before her soft laughter caught him off guard, a narrow look of a stupor loomed her way from him.

"What?" he cut in.

"You're very… fickle," Melise replied, amused. "It was breathing, swimming, and living."

He raised a lid, some amusment in his stare, "What are you gonna say next? It has a family and a job, too?"

The convertible's tires settled, she twisted her tread into the gravel. She seemed to be pondering in thought, the same grin on her front. Jackson eyed her for an answer.

"Mister Storm, do—"

"Call me Jackson," he cued, "this isn't—"

"This isn't a job interview," she finished the sentence in gentle grace, looking to him, "I know."

"Then why'd you say it like that?"

He watched her pout her lips, she blinked twice, looking elsewhere as she thought about it. The simple gesture would easily replay in his head later.

"Maybe it's a respectful way of talking to a car I don't really know."

Jackson's eyes narrowed slightly, he seemed to find a challenge in her words.

"Then let's get to know each other," he replied, his tone assertive, nearly commanding. His wheels guided him away from the docks, back down the trail. She followed.

The convertible looked at the car beside her, his engine humming in an electrical ambiance as he rolled across the sediment. He had those familiar large racing tires on, his entire deposition collected and unwavered— ominous like his decals. His eyes blinked slowly, his movements unnerved as he suddenly glanced her way, feeling her attention on him.

Melise gasped, staring right to the rocky ground in shame. She wished the noise wasn't as bold. She couldn't let the nerves get the better of her.

She was quick to shoo off her embarrassment, tucking it away with some difficulty.

"I think I told you everything when I showed up… when I attended your party uninvited."

She watched him think, recalling the night. His mouth pursed then flexed.

When he didn't answer, Melise nibbled her bottom lip, taking the cue.

"I guess it's a draining feeling when you..."

She paused a moment, trying to find some descriptive words. Melise rolled her tongue, that conversation was old.

Defeated, she blew a soft sigh.

"Why do you always do that thing?" Jackson asked, he braked at the trail's middle, turning to face her.

Melise looked at him, confused, "What 'thing'?"

He checked her out for a second, "The staring thing," he replied.

She gazed at him, lost.

"You're doing it now," Jackson said simply.

Melise gasped, "Oh, I didn't realize!" she gathered herself, straightening her cab, "I zone out sometimes."

"You think when you zone out," he stated, watching her align next to him, "What do you think about?"

Her pale peach sparkled under the bright lamp post, she blinked twice, nibbling her lip.

"Too many things," Melise answered, she looked at the trail ahead, "Sometimes it's about life," she glanced to the race car beside her, "You know, what will it be like in ten, maybe twenty years from now."

Jackson stretched his axles, listening to her voice, it's octaves jumping up and down in soft waves.

"Other times, I think about whether or not we live with aliens, and—"

Jackson erupted in laughter, he shook his hood, grinning, "Wait, wait… what? If we live with... aliens?"

"Well, I mean, the theory is there, I figured what if?" Melise answered sheepish, she exchanged a smile with him, watching Storm continue to grin, leading the way.

Melise kept to the left, soon rolling beside Jackson again, "You're just weird." he said.

"I'm just Melise," she replied sweetly, "and you're just... Jackson," she said in a softer tone, her voice winesome as he looked at her again. A twee grin shined his way, pure and wholesome, she giggled.

"Your family owns a café, right?"

Melise lifted her tire, avoiding a large sediment of debris, she shot a surprised look Storm's way.

"Yes," she answered, her suspicisions obvious in her slightly jaded expression.

Jackson nodded, "You seem like the type to be working in a coffee shop."

"What do you mean?"

His tire reached the asphalt of the lot as they exited the trail. Storm didn't take much notice to the change in pressure, while Melise gave her axles a stretch.

"Milk shakes, cookies," he glanced about before turning back to her, "and you call your tires 'doughnuts'. I wouldn't be surprised if you drank cinnamon tea quarts all day long."

"That's the most you've said this entire time," Melise replied. She could see he was waiting for a genuine explanation. A hanging response to learn more without asking.

"The menu is simple, nothing really special besides maybe sprinkles on your cakes, or drink."

Jackson could see the Honda thinking again, "You don't know your family's own menu?"

Melise laughed nervously, "Ah, heh… Well, I've never really worked there, I just sort of roam around, sometimes I cleaned."

There was silence as Jackson listened to her pause, watching where he was going as she followed behind.

"When I was younger, I helped my mother carry a hefty deposit into the store safe. Does that count?" Melise said.

Jackson looked her way again, seeing the streetlights luminating her glossy brown eyes. She had a different expression, something of melancholy. She was all smiles just a minute ago.

"Not a fun place?" Jackson cut her thoughts.

The convertible exhaled, "It drove a wedge between us, and well, carsitters are expensive."

Jackson raised a lid slightly.

"My sister, she couldn't stand it anymore than I could. No abusive— nothing like that, just so much stress from a little coffee shop."

He hoped she wouldn't start crying, seeing her stretch her axles unnecessarily.

Before he could find a response, the Honda cheerfully piqued up again, "Things are better now, I just need to find my way in life."

"Kind of like you," she added, his glance casted her way.

"What are you babbling about now? Haven't I already proved to you and everyone else how successful I am?" Jackson replied proudly.

"Au contraire, you're still quite the Jackass," she said gracefully.

"Fine, you have your little joke, 'Jackson the Jackass', happy? does that make your engine warm and your mouth smile?" He retorted rolling his eyes.

"Yes," she laughed, "It sounds hilarious when you say it, like you've claimed it as your own title."

"You've got a nice little laugh, you know?"

He said, smirking.

Melise gasped, her front teeth biting her bottom lip as she blinked, the rose coating her hood.

"It's just a sound someone makes when they're amused, it doesn't mean anything,"

the convertible said sheepish.

"If you say so," Storm gazed over her features.

The two were silent again.

"I don't know what else to talk about," Melise whispered.

"Same here," Jackson replied.

"I'm glad I came here to see you, Jackson... " she murmured. He could hear her voice trail off, her murmur becoming thoughts in her mind, and she gazed off, smiling to herself, her graceful nature.

"There's the face again," Storm said, watching her close her mouth to a gentle smile his way.

His engine revved as he pulled close to her side, giving her an embrace. Melise felt her RPM's race as her cheek pressed against his fender, the cold alloy on his Lightyears chilled her out. It was ending again.

Another unfamiliar engine approached, and Melise opened her eyes to see the bouncer SUV, his shiny, professional finishing coat of black matte color reflected her small appearance.

"Sweet dreams, Peach girl," Jackson said with confidence, letting her go, gently. He focussed on his bodyguard, "Take her home."

\


	37. Stay Peachy

The shaded area of the quiet, empty stadium was safe from the hot, Floridian sun for the idling cars nearby. The group shared collective annoyance on their hoods, making use of the minimal break time. A familiar red sedan grinned into the reflection on a coolant tank. The Rust-Eze decal, a common souvenir of his, caught a small ray of sunlight and sparkled a shimmer on the "95" orange outline. Preston grinned at his treasure, the dried, sandy residue of road paint left at least one part of his cab clean for the day.

"Why you checking out yourself like a girl?"

The red sedan narrowed his eyes and peered through his mirrors as the three cars behind chuckled.

Grid's headlights dulled a dry cover of dust and grime from the painstaking work. His paint hardly casted a glare with its grubby appearance. Preston gave his friend a predictable once over of annoyance. The sun was too hot for arguing.

"Dude, go take a wash before your muffler gets clogged."

The grey coupe leaned his weight on one tire lazily, turning his eye to reply, "What?"

"You look like a junkyard."

Preston's grin appeared as all but Grid, hooted in amusement. The coupe gave him a distasteful curl of his upper lip.

"We all do, McWiener. At least I won't spend half of my paycheck on a guy who ain't the fastest car anymore, like you." Grid rolled his eyes as his reverse lights flashed on. "He would lick McQueen bumper just to hear him rev his engine — who even needs Rust-Eze ointment when you have this guy?" his tires aligned beside Tony, hearing the pick-up snort to conceal his fit laughter.

"BREAK TIME'S OVER," a white, Ram pick-up truck lectured. He took a glance at the long check-list for his employees, hearing the group groan as the pulled out of park, and into the hot sun.

As the other's muttered defiance under their grilles, Yarvis cruised towards the supervisor, the truck's eyes acknowledged the Toyota idling head on with very little as a slight raise of his lid.

"With all due respect, Sir," the sedan began, "You've had us doing chores for the last two weeks! Can't you extend the break?"

The pick-up truck furrowed his lids, "Extend the break? Do you understand why you are here to begin with?"

The group listening behind fell silent in unison, recalling their escapades.

"Sir, I wasn't even a part of it," Yarvis protested, "It was all their idea!"

"What!?" Tony slammed on his brakes, narrowing his eyes in opposition, he turned, "Dude... are you serious!?"

Watching the two bicker for a moment, their supervisor cut in, "Both of you will learn the hard way, If you want to keep your contract's until the next season, you'll adjust to this formal discipline."

"Formal?" Grid grumbled under his breath, "Is that what he calls repainting the rumble strips?" He glanced from his place under the oil pump tent to the red car approaching.

"And cleaning the press box," Preston added as he passed, towing two paint cans towards the pit lane.

The white Ram waved his tire, dismissing Yarvis' further groans of protest, "Now get back to work boys. The season's opening race is in a few days, the track needs to be pristine."

Preston's grin appeared in the distance, "Yeah, McQueen's gonna book it this year!"

Kessler grinned in amusement beside Tony as the two got back to dusting the fresh cut in-field grass, "He actually meant to say Storm," the navy pick-up truck winked.

"I mean it," Preston shouted, "You can't mess with a legend!"

Grid rolled his eyes at the conversation. He stopped scrubbing the sticky tar caked around the oil tank nozzle, and took a glance of the empty track. It almost felt like the first day on the job again. A sludge of tar splattered on his hood, and the coupe jerked in reverse, incredulous as he turned to make eye contact with his boss. The Ram glanced him over, seeing the grey coupe cower slightly, "Get back to work, Griddy, the muck on that nozzle won't clean itself."

He glanced among the working cars, beginning with Grid in front, matting his tires in the sticky, black residue caked and dripped down his grille, across to Preston in the distance, scrubbing grime and garbage off the track, "Consider yourselves lucky, your paychecks are arriving tomorrow morning, and you'll be free then until the next chore is assigned."

Dumbfounded, Grid watched the truck head out of the lot. Tony and Kessler began snickering as Grid raised a lid in stupor, "Did he just call me 'Griddy'?"

"Yeah, he did, Griddy," Tony snickered.

The grey coupe groaned. The punishment was just too much, even if there were quarts of Transberry juice to feast at leisure in the gas tent. The Florida race was approaching, and nearly a year of oil running wasn't much of a time to perfect the act as the big boss claimed. One race team would require seven litres, another would request twelve— confusing yet, the pump didn't measure the fluid inside, creating a disruption as it fell empty right in the middle of races.

The manager drove in groves of serpintines in the stands behind the fence. Grid watched as he did his part, placing banners for the upcoming race beside pillars for guests that would eventually happened to cross by.

Either the oil runners he hired were akin to dump trucks, or the job was too much to handle. Nearly a month ago, things were smooth. The coupe could remember the boss' smile, his praise as the day ended neatly, the free time afterwards...

The idea was as non-existent as a spectator in the racing dome today. Things went downhill, and the team preferred to talk instead of work— it made the long day easier, but the manager wasn't having it. Foolishness online or not, Grid was in the can with Tony and the other guys, all over innocent fun.

Grid got back to scrubbing. If they did the job right, they could get out of here quicker. Punishment be damned, they didn't need an extra member to get the job done right. He could figure it out, maybe become team leader within the days following. The Florida 500 was well-anticipated within the coming weeks, what better way to secure a good repertoire. The guys would be thankful for a team captain that didn't yell all the time.

The oil drum creaked, groaning sludge that sloshed to the bottom of the tank. Grid stared incredulous as the nozzle splattered strings of sticky dark brown blobs to the asphalt below his treads.

"Grid, you better clean that stuff up before it hardens!" the Ram called from the grandstands.

"Yeah," Grid muttered looking about for a plow attachment, "I'll— uh— get to it."

* * *

There was always distinct vibrations as a vehicle passed by. Several doors along the halls would open, others would slam closed— different cars, different personalities. The likely culprit, breakfast room service.

The world and its worries were scarce. Time and disarray didn't exist for now, and her eyes remained closed. She inhaled the fresh air blowing through the veranda window. The breeze was serene, tickling her lashes as thoughts roamed of 2.0 decals. Her lips curled into a smile, and she held back a joyful giggle. She could almost hear his resonant voice…

"MELISE!"

The Honda's eyes shot open, her eyes turned to calmly view the intrusion. A familiar, glossy Camry idled a few meters away, her grille crinkled in anger as her shimmery eyeshadow twinkled with each frustrated blink. Melise exchanged a confused glance with her opened suite door through the rooms, and the invading Toyota in front of her.

"YOU WENT TO HIM!" Emla accelerated forward, glare fixed.

"Wha…"

Her tires latched onto the convertible's fenders, and she rattled her left and right, "YOU ACTUALLY WENT TO SEE THAT GASHOLE!?"

Emla concentrated on the doe brown eyes horrified of her. Melise mumbled some incorherance.

"YOU _HAVE_ LOST YOUR MIND!"

"Emla, stop!" Melise squealed, pushing against her with clumsy axles.

"YOU NEED TO STOP!" Emla's gear shot in reverse as she let Melise go. Her tires skid against the oak flooring and her tail bumper met the dresser, causing it to rock unstable, swinging slowly to a stop.

Melise heaved once. She raised her lids in worry, seeing her hazard lights ironically blinking in the mirror opposite. Initiated by accident in the shuffle, Melise turned them off, and glanced back to her angry friend.

She knew Jackson Storm wasn't a pleasing topic for Emla, it was made clear with the 'gashole' comments yesterday. Despite the confliction, the last thing Melise expected was to be ambushed over visiting him.

"… All we did… was talk… and… wait! How do you know that anyway!?" Melise looked horrified.

"What do you mean "how do I know"?" Emla furrowed her lids in agitation at the clueless convertible, "you must seriously love being in front of cameras, embracing and making kiss-faces like some couple," the Camry rolled her eyes in annoyance, while Melise shrunk into embarrassment.

"What..." her voice fell small and stiff. News travelled fast.

"What did you guys talk about hmm?" She sneered, seeing the Honda hardly snap out of it. Her brown eyes were void of the life they once had, instead replaced with horror. Was this a just a joke?

"After the way he treated you!" Emla fussed, "You decide to actually go see him!?"

"I..."

"The way the media would portray you! Do you honestly think Storm cares about you!?" Emla extended her axles in emphasis.

The sentence surged frigid coolant through Melise's engine. She could remember Jackson's disgusted expression now, the way he asserted his dominance over her in the presence of other cars. He was agitated with her then— and she was annoyed with him. Mutual dissonance.

But what was beneath it? His status, his valuable free time. Then there was that thing he did— looking her up and down, like she was a priority, a random convertible who just screeched his name from the Pits. He would flex his jaw slightly, and trail his grey irises to her own, ready to listen to her babbling. He was a total jerk, and an honest one, but only when he wanted to be.

"You don't know him!" Melise shot back, eyes narrowing.

The Camry's aggravation grew and she stomped her tire, "Don't defend him! Do you think he would defend anyone else, or even you!? Where is he now!? Use your brain!"

Melise ignored the adrenaline of shame coming her way, she watched her friend latch onto a familiar blue sheet of paper.

Emla read the note over once, mere seconds before turning her eyes towards Melise. The Honda exchanged glances between her friend, and her treasure. Emla pressed her right tire on the paper, using the other to shred the note in half.

"It's garbage, everything you think about him. I know what I'm talking about," the scraps of sky blue tone paper quickly stained to a grey dusty hue under Emla's treads.

Melise watched panting and speechless as the Camry tore her prized possession apart, her brown eyes dilated, and a gasp arrived seconds later. For a moment, she expected a cold rush of anger, maybe even a cut to her heart, only to hear the growling of the Toyota, and her assault on the racer's invitation, nothing else. Melise blinked, quiet and observing as the breeze blew shreds of blue tailored paper around her room. Emla poured her frustration mindlessly into her task at tire. Her teeth gritted as she struggled to pull apart a thick stack of paper. Defeated, she dug at the mess nonsensically with her treads.

Melise exchanged a demure glance between the event unfolding before her, was this all Emla could do to assert her dominance? Shred an invitation that was already used?

The newfound peace in her life was usually interrupted favour of animosity. This was different, growing familiar with the with the new array of personalities in her life.

Her doe brown eyes loomed silently over Emla, accepting, and still slightly sleepy. The urge to flee or cower was absent. Horror was new, but expectant. Melise blinked, her eyes narrowing as she searched her muddled mind for some sort of mental explanation. Emla's voice seemed to fade in.

"… And then you come back here! Now what? You and him will have long chit-chats about stupid things, then you just leave each other alone again!?"

The rather blunt statement gave way to a frown on Melise's delicate features. The comment hurt— this time. Emla saw the frown appear on the convertible's front, and she narrowed her approach, finding the weakness.

"He's a famous race car, he doesn't even need you, or anyone. All he's going to do is reel you in, then throw you out. Don't you get it!?"

The convertible's frown remained in place, she was still. Emla beat her tread into the floor, "Just look at the way he treats his fans and the Press!"

Melise shook her hood, rolling to a brake, "But you can't base your entire argument on what you saw on T.V!" her voice fell quieter when she realized there was a shouting match, "There's more than meets the eye."

"Like what?" Emla emphasized her axles in extension.

Gloss coated Melise's eyes as she thought about it, her thoughts remained absent in fluster of the events around her as Emla narrowed her eyes impatient.

"That's what I thought," the Camry huffed, "If you want to hang out with Jackson Storm so badly, consider waiting in line with the rest of his fans, seriously, keep dreaming."

Melise crinkled her front, taken aback by the reality of the comment. She ignored the sinking in her circuits, "I don't need you to tell me how to think or feel... Just get out."

"What?" Emla asked, puzzled. The girl always mumbled like a shy high schooler.

Melise kept her incredulous annoyance fixed, "I said go! Leave me alone!" She paused and her eyes fell into a curious knot of her lids. A new noise of the room's main entrance opened, accompanied by the sound of an approaching engine.

"I hear yelling! What's wrong?" A muffled posh male voice came, pushing the bedroom door open. The sun ray entered the opening door, reflecting on familiar polished, gold fibreglass.

The Bentley's vision lined up with Melise, and her RPM's visibly increased further as she caught sight of her mentor with the widen of her eyes, much to Jonah's own chargin, she looked like a spooked tractor. Emla—quick to disdain, charged away without another word. Melise cringed as the Camry slammed the suite door, her eyes settled into a downcast.

She was alone again, the creeping in horror of vulnerability ruined the already tarnished setting. Silence filled the room.

"Fighting off jealous competition?" Jonah joked, lightening the air, "I like that!"

Melise frowned attitude in her tone, "She's my friend."

Jonah ignored the sass on her voice and watched her stare in space, her melancholy returned, and she flipped her mouth into that Chrysler-awful looking frown. Jonah couldn't pin-point it exactly, but she reminded him of a cabbage-patch car, wide-eyed and giddy, the difference was that she wasn't stuffed. His content grille became straight with his comedy falling short. She was difficult to please too, ungrateful at best— he came to check on her safety, but here she was scornful as usual. He watched her roll towards the bathroom.

"That girl is one of the other competitors," Jonah stated carefully, "Why were you fighting with her?"

Melise made a sharp U-turn, facing her mentor head-on, "I wasn't fighting her. I don't really know—she's upset."

Briefly, the Honda's attention was absent as she hoped he wouldn't pry, watching him nod absently. She stared in space, lost and recollecting. Her tires soon turned her away from him, following the short distance to her destination.

"We have a show tonight," Jonah announced, he looked up in keen thought, "it's sponsored under— wait for it: Sidewall O' Shine. Stupid name right?" he flashed a grin her way, looking at her mirrors.

"…Kay," she murmured, seeing him grinning at his lame jokes. She could remember a note in her pamphlet stating the sponsor was cutting its partnership with the racing series in favour of corporate ties after nearly ten years. This must've been their next move, rim sales.

"I'm thinking that cute little bumper of yours will look great in sky blue," Jonah emphasized his tires to the ceiling in a semi-circle. She turned to look at his display, her lip curled in slight repulsion. He shot her a wink as she reversed into the bathroom.

The silence returned, and Jonah grumbled a sigh. He knew she was miserable. You couldn't turn a small town car into a high-end roadster overnight, especially a fragile convertible. Turo could disagree, IGNTR could dish out as much cash as they wanted, Jonah knew she wasn't fit for the competition. He couldn't wrap his mind around a beautiful car preferring to actually drive the speed limit. Melise didn't take those thrilling challenges. In fact, the Bentley was almost certain she had a well rounded set of cylinders, she could rev that sporty engine if she wanted to...

They'd have to put away their differences aside for now. Youngsters were snappy and girls were moody, but the Bentley considered himself young at heart. If he wanted to get along with Melise, he'd have to befriend her, no matter how hard it was.

Jonah pulled up to the door, listening inside to hear what she was doing. After moment of silence, he sighed. She must be stressed out, but that's the high life.

"Uh...Turo sent the tires and rims for you. Wanna try them on so I can take some pictures?"

She didn't reply, instead, opening the door to look at him. The somber expression was replaced with a blank once over his gold dimensions.

"Are you alright?" the usual softness in her voice was back, free of stress and fear. The comment caught him off guard.

Jonah raised a lid confused, "Huh?"

"You went to the hospital, right?" she accelerated past him, making a turn around the bed to fix her messy comforter, "Are you okay, now?" she glanced his way, her gentle eyes of concern emphasized her grace.

"Yeah, yeah," his voice rose an awkward octave as he answered her. "Other guy wasn't so lucky though, wish you could've seem me pummel him into the asphalt."

Melise watched him punch his treads against the air in mimicry of an event Jonah wished had happened. She giggled in forced to clear the air of an embarrassment.

Soon changing the subject, Jonah slid three cans of different coats of paint in front of her. Melise glanced among the cans, the first was a glossy sunshine color of yellow, followed by a chrome magenta and lastly, Jonah's recommendation, the glossy baby blue.

"I'm telling you, listen to the master of fashion, baby," Jonah boasted as he reversed to a comfortable spot behind her sight in the vanity mirror, "That blue is meant for you."

She hesitated, "I don't know if I can do this..." Jonah rolled his eyes, not this again.

She breath a deep sigh, "Will everyone else be wearing blue?" she began studying the glossy adorable color.

Jonah shrugged, "Who cares!? All that matters is you rocking that runway." he pulled away for a moment, wheeling in a single tire and matching glossy rim just for her. Melise stared in wonder at the sparkling blue beauty, IGNTR's signature ring lined the side walls.

"It's so—"

"Amazing right!?" Jonah cut her off, seeing her eyes brighten some, "I do know how to choose."

The Bentley crept in close, seeing her reasonable content turn to uncomfortable concern, "and you'll look better than that friend of yours." his voice was low and obviously trying to hard.

"If you insist," Melise remarked flatly, rolling forward in an 'S' to avoid Jonah's attention.

Sure to arrive for adequate timing, Jonah dropped his tow of the Honda's belonging, her tires, and the fancy ESR rims. He watched through her provided vanity mirror as she peeked inside, looking about the empty dressing room.

"What's up?" the Bentley asked, turning to face her, she seemed to ignore his comment, blinking rapidly as she passed him, brake lights turned on at the dresser, and she parked herself.

"Okay," she glanced to him, aligning beside her, "I've decided I want the yellow paint," she stated bluntly. Jonah's jaw nearly detached, she chose the ugliest color for her model.

"What!? We decided on the blue!" Jonah protested. He watched her ignore him once more, indifferent to his commands.

"You wanna change just like that?" He became quizzical as she nodded.

"I think the yellow colour is pretty," Melise grinned as she thought about it shimmering under spotlights, "plus, I've never been yellow before."

Jonah thumped his tire in annoyance, "Are you kidding me!? Ugh!"

Melise glanced to the traffic moving disorganized in the half closed door of the hallway through the mirror opposite. She caught sight of a blue Benz passing by nonchalantly, likely looking for her friend. Her eyes moved about, soon settling on a vehicle out of sight, Merina's eyes glimmered in content as she disappeared from the doorway view. Melise shifted her weight in discomfort, turning her attention back to her reflection.

"I'm not changing the paint, you will look fabulous in baby blue," Jonah stated boldly.

"I don't want the blue paint! Go get the yellow, please!" the Honda snapped.

Her mentor shot her an incredulous look, soon reversing right out of her room for her demands.

Melise watched as the door creaked closed, soon fidgeting in discomfort. She backed up from her spot, knocking over a forgotten quart of oil left on another vanity. The drink stained the carpet flooring.

"Oh Chevy... " Melise muttered in annoyance. She pushed the can upright, and raised her tire to toss it into the trash. Her left tire dripped the substance, staining her front bumper with a streak. The convertible wiped at it with her inner sidewalls, smearing a mixture of grubbiness over her faded peach fibreglass. Glancing up to see the mess on her front, she growled in high octaves as she saw the IGNTR racer's autograph.

Arriving back with her artist, Jonah showed her the can in silent attitude, Melise blinked rapidly, looking away, "Thank you."

The runway was glamorous for the relatively unknown brand. LED lights lined the cruiseway with spotlights at the end, lighting each dimmed approaching vehicle. The audience was a sparse array of cars, likely a few hundred, chattering until the lights lowered and the bass riffed to begin the show.

Parked at the judges table, Jonah peered at the sight of a chrome orange Royce, her sharp, long lashes emphasizing her menacing resting face. The Bentley watched Melise line up with the other girls, her chosen yellow color standing out among the collection of chromes surrounding her. He fought the urge to lose his mind, that particular car was a well-established fashionista, from the intricate designs on her treads to assert her wonder, to the shiny tint of her windows of luxury. Laverne Spark, he had no idea she would be here to witness this.

"I've gotta say, we are truly blessed by the Maufacturer to have you here!" the M.C grinned, listening to the scattered cheers.

The Royce rubbed her lips together, knowing full proof her lipstick was where it was supposed to be, "My pleasure," she answered in elderly wisdom, "I didn't convert to Tesla for Sidewall O' Shine's cruelty-free reputation for nothing."

The two shared a fake array of laughter to keep the crowd pleased. Within mere minutes, Jonah planted himself firmly in park, he wasn't going out there, but the very thought of who was caused him to cringe, his reverse lights carried him to the corner to breathe obnoxiously.

Melise watched as each vehicle returned with pearly white smiles, their chromes shining off each opaque object in sight. She hardly noticed the twinkling blue on Merina as she pulled past her, finishing he round. The Benz smiled, while the convertible paid her little attention.

"I'm ready... I'm ready... I'm ready," Melise murmured, she made eye contact with a maroon chrome shimmer approaching.

It was Jin, giving her a once over, "Wow, that's different, in a good kinda way!" she grinned in honesty. Melise forced a smile to the comment, despite her missing chrome shine.

The car in front disappeared down the runway, vibrations shook Melise's cab as she waited, nervous and patient. A moment passed as she loomed at the audience under dark blue lights, The cars focussed on the girl leaving the runway with impression.

Melise's RPM's quickened, and she rolled forward in hesitation, allowing the returning model to pass quickly. Her nose end pulled out awkwardly into the cold air and dimmed atmosphere. Lights acted as white lines on a road, leading her to her destination of blinding spotlights at the end.

High on her suspension and a demure elegance on her enhanced beauty, the convertible took off down the cruiseway, caught up in muddled nervousness, it made noticing anything impossible.

The cars cheered, scattered wows of awe as her doe brown eyes glimmered on her white windshield visible in the dimmed length of cruise to cover.

Melise noticed the Royce in front squint with a shift of her cab, raising her lid. The convertible soon came bumper to bumper with the judges, hearing a strange scatter of spaced cheering from the audience as her bright yellow polish clashed with the atmosphere. She smiled, quick to avoid the awkward exchanges between the unpleased judges. The table was chrome, the Rolls Royce— chrome, the decor, even lighting, all chrome.

Her rose showed on her sunshine yellow fenders, matching tire rims, and ugly contrast the the toned down colors of the world around her. Her lids raised in worry, quickly turning to stupor as she was taken aback by the shameful stares. The Honda sped in her perfect U-turn, her straight, thin oval tail lights soon disappearing into the blue dim lights again. Her frown followed her past two familar cars, both dull shades of chrome sparkles. The Camry looked elsewhere with a knowing expression. She fought back a grin and the laughter behind it.

The cars that finished their rounds, watched as the Honda bolted into the dressing room, cursing loudly as she blew up in frustration.

"Are you kidding me!?"

Jonah chewed his tire, he cringed at her unusual volume. Cars nearby the stage entrance listened to the noise as the music drowned into an instrumental, quieter bridge.

A yellow car, stocky and heavy axled jittered his lid at the obscene shrills backstage, the two young ones beside him looked for guidance, raising their naive lids in confusion.

"Oh Chrysler," Emla cringed, "That's Slider Petrolski."

Merina looked at the race car, older and stumped in the audience outside, "Who?"

Emla groaned, "He used to race under Sidewall O' Shine. Those are his kids, duh."

Merina watched the Royce squint in confusion as the music picked up bass, muffling further screams, "That sucks," she emphasized with a sigh of awestruck.


	38. For The Record

author's note: I'm glad you're still tuning in! Thank you all for the kind reviews! I'm not to pleased with leaving you waiting a whole month for new chapters, but i still love writing this story. It's coming along, piece by piece. life is a busy highway, you know?

I wanted to add, whenever vehicles are described as "modern", this (I would imagine in the Carsverse it's a similar scenerio) means that the car is modelled as a 2011 and later type. I don't like to make the characters sound like they rolled out of a factory, so instead it's best to use specific adjectives to help understand what they should look like instead of vehicle numbers and years. Likewise, an old car will never be a modern car, so the idea can be imagined like an evolutionary tree. Kinda cool... Wishing you well!

* * *

The space was too dark, like a dungeon, void of arch windows the modern cellar's construction had. It was a bright, hot climate outside, and despite the beating sun, the lift truck found himself struggling to see his concerns above, his eyes still adjusting, and lantern too dim to work with. A steady trickle of water from the opened ceiling helped enough. The dark teal color of his paint job reflected on the plumbing tools scattered across the floor, and he squinted, raising his heavy duty forks with pokes and prods to identify any rust to the ongoing new installation of pipes. He pulled down his safety goggles, discontent with the past maintenance.

A lone beige Ford sedan pulled around the winding ramp, soon arriving in the spaceous, barren basement. He narrowed his lids in stupor of the darkness in the afternoon hour, his low beams flickered on.

"It's darker than night down here," his elderly chuckle was cut short by a drop of cold water on his windshield. He reverse with the creak of his suspension, glancing up in confusion. The forklift glanced up to the shine of proper lights revealing the maze of pipes and a larger one, the main one, dripping steadily from a bolt. His mouth frowned at the corner, "It's a leak from the master room," he glanced to the old Ford, abhorrence still on his hood as he listened, "likely a backed-up toilet."

More water dripped, splattering on the tile, " Ah, Chevy... These jokers probably put a temporary cap over the damage," the tug hammered the pipe once with a meter stick, echoing a ring of metal, "they're temporary for a reason."

"This a leak? Did they not test the water before they changed the pipes?" the Taurus coughed as the fork truck turned off a nearby fan blowing dust through the space and into the sedan's air filter.

"Sorry about that," the teal forklift turned on his tires, "Whoever the guys were, they left a mess too,." he glanced the Ford's way, "You think we should do them a favour and clean the dust away?"

The Taurus waved his tire in dismissal, "No time," he coughed once, glancing about the haze of grime and labyrinth of plumbing in the cut out ceiling, "the faster I get the power on, we can flush this stuff out with the air conditioning vents."

The sedan pulled up to the breaker, it's wires a tangled mess, "We're gonna leave it running all day and into tomorrow..." he paused a moment, thinking over the inevitable, "That ain't too rude is it?" the Ford tilted a lid in need of reassurance.

"The bill for the month will be big, but the thing will be habitable, free of dust," the lift replied in honesty.

"Good, that's all a car needs."

The two got to work, the silence creating a peaceful atmosphere of tinkering tools.

Loud bangs shook the floor above, and the pipe dripped furiously. The forklift narrowed his lids, peeking through squinted eyes. The safety goggles did the job right, but they didn't remove the splash factor. He cursed, wiping around his grille in disgust.

"What's going on up there?" He asked the Ford, shaking the plumbing leak off his visors. The Taurus listened as the shuffling and dragging continued a level above, "Movers," he answered, "They got tipped off to arrive and start early."

The little truck seemed impressed, "With a place like this, those must be good tips."

Pulling the old wires loose, the Ford nodded, careful to allowing his metal to touch the module. He hooked up fresh wires ones into the circuit, "Oh yeah," he agreed, "It's the prettiest lot I've seen in all my years as an electrician."

A hum rose as the vents above adjusted to the new pressure on them, they came to life moments later as cold air rushed out. The Taurus watched the vent low on the wall, "turn on the light," his tread pointed to a nearby switch mounted on the wall at the lift's disposal.

The room brightened with fluorescent light, and the Taurus shielded his unadjusted eyes into his tread, blinking after, "Good to see it's working down here."

"Hopefully, the entire house," the teal lift replied, glad to finally see his work properly.

The old Ford hummed in agreement, "It'd better be, I never thought this place would be bought, you know most cars can't afford this kind of space."

The forklift nodded, "You know I wish." he resumed tinkering with the plumbing. With the additional lighting, the loose bolt was clear in sight. The job could finish faster. Inhaling the fresh, cooled air, the elderly Taurus stretched his front axles, "With those guys getting things in order upstairs, I'll bet our we'll finish by the end of the week. This place will be liveable by then."

* * *

Shannon toyed with her headset, dusting off each fuzzy cover with her treads. The redundant task snapped her out of it, and she opted instead to tap her tire impatiently.

The lanes were nearly a sparkling clear. Not a speck of garbage littered the grandstands, the pit roads and oil tanks spotless, in-field grass was trimmed, free of RV skid marks. Everything was perfect. Racing Sports Network crew had timed their professional arrival, now idling under the heatwave for the teams to show.

Spokes sighed as the dome's large sky doors began to close on their sixth timely row of maintenance. Each several minutes consisted of a bright, sunlit stadium, only to be darkened to minimal natural light seething through opened tunnels to the back bays and hard light exit signs to guide above. Shannon didn't consider herself one to be easily impressed, especially after seeing the dome repeat its check four times over, but it's ability to not shudder all around it during the hundred ton travel from one side to close the other. Better yet it's menacing, huge gliding ceiling was quieter than an idling racer's engine. Architecture and technology, that was the glory of the Florida Super Speedway.

Beside the fiery journalist, a light blue Lugnutter van watched Shannon shift her weight from right to left, her cab rolled mere inches in careless neutral. He pushed the camera out of his blindspot, hearing her grumble in the same moment, "Where is he, Chuck?"

"He'll be here," he assured, his own impatience wearing thin, "They'll all be here... " Chuck Cables glanced to the scorching Floridian sun for a second before it burned his windshield. It's parallel position over the bowl dome left no natural shade, and the camera van spent enough years trackside to inference it was nearly three o'clock. Shannon was right, where were these guys? Any luck would guess these Next-Gen youngsters were getting their bumpers waxed, paint polished, not to mention that fixation with taking self portraits with those extendable sticks inside their trailers during down time. What did the kids call them… he rolled his tongue overthinking the made up term. "Selfies", yeah, that was it. Chuck scoffed, new age cars were getting faster, optimal, efficient— and dumber.

Silence on a raceway. The missing V8's and weak horsepower of average cars was like a shoreline without currents. It was a strange, nearly mind-boggling boredom that Chuck was sure in all his years he would remember. He gave the impressive speedway another once over, slipping his attention through the perfect tone of concrete on every lot of the grandstands. Not a single oil leak, forgotten antenna ball, or discarded piece of litter. Chuck sighed, reversing into the shade beside Shannon. She hardly bent a reaction despite his near collision into her, absence of attention to his blind spot when over-heating took over.

Safely inside the shade, Shannon had nothing to say, hardly a lid to open. The brown coupe opted to rest her weight on a right tire, her shallow expression was all she offered now. The racers had better have a show ready for the Network with these haphazard hours of operation. With any luck, she had high hope the _Champion_ would show up first, but his new reputation was skyrocketing, which meant his deals were discounting, and his bank account... she didn't know how these young guys handled that kind of flow. Grudgingly, he looked good on camera, and during the off-season, Storm was as absent as McQueen, ironic yet considering they were highly sought after content. Rusteze had let McQueen go MIA without any deets, while IGNTR refused cameras on facility, citing it distracted their prime racer from being the best of the generations. In fact, the last RSN had heard from Storm was a new claim about his so called pure heart coming out— mushy stuff that salon magazines were gifted in raging about besides the core factor of his existence being centered around his ability on the track. And Storm was a force to be reckoned with, attitude and speed alone, he was the reigning champion, Natalie and Chick would see to it. If anyone had news worthwhile, it was the Racing Sports Network. Not some sappy housewife magazine.

Chuck saw Shannon adjust her mirrors suddenly. He watched her expression coat some interest, her cab remained reserved, "Do you hear that?"

The Lugnutter listened, hearing the spiel of nature, and a plane overhead. She wasn't talking about that. There was a bellowing diesel engine in the distance, it was getting louder, closer.

The semi truck's entrance tugged the journalist from her boredom, and she pulled a rough U-turn out and around the tent, looking the truck up and down from her distance. Lime green, some shades were darker than others on Vitoline's design. Nearby, RSN crew emerged into the beating sun, confirming a next-gen's arrival.

"Number 24! It's Racelott!" Chuck Cables announced to the crew, his camera, once resting on his hood propped up, ready to go LIVE when needed, "Come on!"

The glittery brown coupe watched the blue mini van with his entourage tailgating in express after the grumbling semi, and into Chase's sponsor tent. She pulled back into her previous parked position out of the sun, idling and looking about the speedway's intricate features with little regard. She turned her engine off. It didn't need to do any heavy gear work for now, this was going to be a long day.

When the trailer's hatch final rolled down, the Vitoline racer's content turned to sour squints behind the flashing film.

"Chase! HEY CHASE! How's it feel to be the first one at the track!?"

Racelott cleaned up his posture, forcing a grin and looking the Lugnutter van in his loud mouth, "Feels great, heh. Good day to qualify."

"Can we get some shots of you and Laney when he gets here!?" another crew member shouted above the noisy chatter.

"He didn't polish himself!"

The racer began searching for a way out among the greenery and Vitoline trinkets displayed around the tent. He was quick on his beeline exit, leaving the party behind to their unison of clamor in a growing traffic jam.

Entering the speedway's main grounds, Chase found his wonder brewing. Various tents lined the empty staff runners' lot. Each cover trimmed with pristine white that glared sunlight. Tire pressure monitors with digitized screens, coolant tents, and the raceway itself— a wide, elaborate dome that dipped down to reveal Daytona Beach's blue waters behind Pit Road neighbouring the stadium.

Shannon smirked, watching the racer pass her with awe on his hood, unaware of her presence in the shade. He touched his tread gently to the spotless track, as if testing to see if it was fragile, soon taking a cruise down the pits. Chase was never a threat. A good racer, fair, friendly competition.

Moving along the smooth asphalt, Chase picked up speed. Reaching a freeway cruise of eighty miles, looking about the details of the track. His eyes traced along the steel bars supporting a series of long flat screens. The greyed color and reflecting sunlit surface suggested they were monitors functioning as a 360° Jumbotron. The speedway was featured in 'In Drive' illustrated last year, and merely one of its fascinating features was the start flag replaced with a digitized green ribbon around the speedway's perimeter. Chase had to hear his old-school father marvel at the ingenuity for several days, the entirety of the track's high technology was shoved on his hood in a telling manner. An idea that announced pride in the Racelott lineage for making it to the future of racing.

Making his way around turn two, the speedway seared a stretch of road in hot sunrays, baking the sparkling asphalt. Chase evaluated the space, it was close to four car lengths, and if he guessed it, steaming.

Direct sunlight didn't have a perfect angle at this hour, and the speedway's architecture favoured the Daytona harbor outside. Crystal blue water held boats minding their business, but the skies aimed the perfect UV ray. Chase didn't bother slowing down, they would probably fix this by closing the bowl later on.

The moment of warmth lasted two seconds, and the regular breeze pushed through, blinding sun dissipated. At that second, Chase could feel the familiar sensation of vibrating road, and pulled up, a swift rev as the heat in his engine occupied the inches beside the wall, waiting for the car behind to pass. He scanned his raised lid to the commotion of RSN yet again failing to catch a racer before he reached the track. Racelott squinted to get a better look at the trailer parked five lots down from his own. He took a moment to think the arithmetic over, and a gust of yellow decals passed, abruptly slowing down once he noted the Vitoline racer's presence.

Danny lined up beside Racelott, and the Octane Gain racer bumped him a tire, "Chase, long time no see."

Chase grinned, "Hey man, it's been weeks." The duo cruised down the track, chit-chatter beginning in the tranquility away from aggressive media.

"Tell me, isn't this the most high tech thing you've ever seen?" Vetting the speedway's features, Danny observed the jumbo widescreens around the high level perimeter, just then they faded from a lame grey to vibrant green, digitally mimicking a traditional start flag.

"It's got style," Swervez replied, smirking as his name transitioned in a sharp array on the screen alongside Vitoline.

Gazing down the spotless stretch of track ahead, Chase easily invited the natural urge he was built for. The asphalt sparkled like a brand new steel roller coaster, free of scratches, tire marks, or even burned rubber along its rubble strips.

"That's one clean road," Chase exchanged a glance with Daniel, his own stare matching with a creeping grin. Chase extended his axle, stretching in moderate warm-up, "Whaddaya' say?"

Swervez kept his smirk firm, a curve accented his mouth as he revved his engine twice, accepting the challenge.

In the distance, Network crew cheered, spectating the friendly competition. It was the kind of percipient content fans and sponsors ate up like gasoline— tell-tale evidence against the stereotypes of pushy, careless driving and entitlement revolving around Next-Generation racers.

Shannon remained in park, inattentive to the V8 engines in the distance. Her eyes bore into the Lugnutter straighten a car length in front, he prepared his camera with a parallel alignment beside his left headlight.

"Seriously, Chuck?"

Cables flexed his mirrors, catching the journalist's daze. He tailored the lens with a tire, focussing on Racelott and Swervez passing in a nearly melodic drabble of pure horsepower.

"They aren't HIM, but you're not impressed by THAT!?" with one eye in line with the shot, he extended his tire in emphasis. To the racers, it must've felt like a cruise down the street. To onlookers, it was almost a blur of adrenaline pushing guys who barely broke a cylinder of sweat.

She wore apathy, a lethargic state Chuck easily began to ignore. Sure, Stormy with his winning streak bumper was worthwhile content, but Next-Gens were a a colorful array of dull personalities. Might as well catch it all. The duo sped down the pit road, abruptly skidding to a halt as Swervez hooted, kicking up dust in victory. Chase's grin turned to grimace as his filter inhaled the burning rubber. He coughed in the haze.

The were like little tykes racing each other during recess. The youthful appeal of their banter brought a smile to Chuck's grille. He paused the film, ready to show Shannon his footage, maybe that would ease her impatient RPM. But the coupe had somehow exited the tent in the short period. Merely meters away, she was transfixed on the newest arrival. If Chuck was certain, she was— in particular—reading the sponsor decals of the neon moving van's color through glares of sunlight. Soon enough, her eyes moved along the trailer's detail in a habitual manner, her suspension leveled, and she acknowledged the Tank Coat logo. Rich Mixon.

Chuck didn't bother to pry further into Shannon crotchety. Her mood was temporary, unlike her schedule and time. The journalist had arrived early, he and the rest of the crew too. Keenly prepared for sudden shifts to the racers' free time, the last thing expected was that they would slack on arriving at all. Sure the highways were congested on a Friday, but damn... three hours of waiting.

Mixon didn't exit his trailer, likely enjoying a snooze from the long journey. Chuck sucked in a breath through his bared teeth, exhaling the same. It was going to be a long day.

Crafty was a way to describe it, perhaps that adjective was boring compared to 'awesome', but Ray didn't stress youth lingo in his vocabulary. The track was just that, crafty, different from all the other speedway today. Newer, massive, and to some degree, sinister.

Ray used his toque to easily muscle himself up on his crew station in Pit Lane. Adjusting to the view, and settling on his tires, he parked on the brakes, and glimpsed to the wide oval ahead. Occupying the track were some Next-Gens, using the last few minutes of Conditioning to roll their axles, rev their engines, and clock in their high speed dashes.

Atop the action below, Darrell Cartrip watched a red and black racer line up down pit road. Beside him, his crew chief's mouth moved words of guidance, encouragement— hopefully. Reflecting in the harsh sunlight, the Re-Volting logo shined alongside "48". He speed in a series of smoking rubber down the stretch of asphalt, and entered the track at high speed.

"Your call, Darrell," the silver Saxon coupe murmured. Bob Cutlass gave the Monte Carlo a grin. In front of the pair, two operators began their countdown to film.

"… Here we are, LIVE from the most detailed speedway I've ever seen— ya' seen the nifty gadgets of the track Bob? Florida International Super— emphasis on that Super part— Speedway."

Bob grinned at his co-host's colorful drabble, Darrell was the icing of the Piston Cup Racing Series.

"No sign of Lightning McQueen for Qualifiers today, but we can expect a fair turn-out in today's line up," Cutlass announced in lucid articulacy. Focussing on the qualifier in question, Bob's line of sight followed the race car around the first turn, catching a good angle of his sponsor decals, and number.

"On the track first, we have number forty-eight, Aaron Clocker." the silver Saxon watched him round turn two with quick efficiency, his engine rumbling loudly.

Darrell didn't need to do his usual squint to the track below, watching comfortably from a wide screen adjacent, feeding LIVE footage from ground level.

"You know, that last name's gotta mean something big for the once-rookie," Cartrip theorized, "the whole season, he's been in the top ten, and if there's someone headed for the top three, Clocker's a car you can't miss!"

Adhering to the speed limit of Pit Lane, Aaron pulled into his pit stop with a slow edge of grace. Moments later, the high-pitch shrill of lug nuts being loosened and re-bolted followed. Within seconds, Clocker was high-tailing back to the track, a fresh smudge of tire tracks coated the once perfect street of asphalt.

Nearby, two IGNTR pities watched on their expressions neutral, "I got eighteen seconds, flat," Quincy remarked, observing the Re-Volting tug truck hoisting the used tires away.

Leon took a slip of some low-grade caffeinated oil can resting on his fork. He gave his fellow forklift a dazed look, "You know they also count the fraction of a second? It was more like Fifteen-point-nine seconds."

Quincy yawned, watching Aaron Clocker zip pass Dexter Hoover's waving checkered flag, "I ain't no calculator," he scoffed thinking the logistics over, "who has time to think that whole pit stop over?"

From the shaded box above, Darrell hooted in praise at the finishing run. Bob watched the Re-Volting racer slow down, making his last turn. He glanced to the impressive statistician in the Press box opposite the track, "Natalie?"

Certain didn't hesitate to boast, "A pit stop of 12.2 seconds, and overall," the statistician cleared her throat, "200 miles per hour and 49.91 seconds." She rolled her tongue, catching the attention of the veteran Buick beside her, "Better than his first lap."

Aaron listened to the analyst as he headed to the oil station to cool off. His eyes narrowed, mind gnawing on the bumptious tone. If he wasn't mistaken, that Hicks guy was up there too.

With record timing, Chick Hicks cackled an exaggerated toot of hurrah, "A fancy way to say Clocker's gonna have to get his alternator fixed!"

Through the channel, Bob listened straight faced as the veteran lampooned on in laughter, hearing the not-so-discreet piqued sigh from Natalie.

Darrell leaned in close, bumping his side on his co-host's rear view mirror, "I'm telling you," Cartrip whispered, "those two are a match made in the Manufacturing lands."

Cutlass raised a lid, "My microphone is still on Darrell." The veteran Monte Carlo

aired an awkward half-smile, shooting the cameras a headlight to headlight grin, "let's get back to racing!"

Darrell eyed the sparkling RSN reporter on the tarmac next to the Press tent, "Shannon, give us and the folks at home a break down for today!"

Transitioning to the fiery journalist, Shannon cued her moment, "Thanks Darrell!" the coupe glittered, a natural on camera, "The weather is great, the track itself is a high-tech advancement for these Next-Gens, in fact, their pit speeds will likely surpass team Rusteze's record winning spe—"

Tires squealed behind the interrupted reporter, followed by loud bickering on the pit road. Shannon reversed from the camera's obstruction, seeing the Tow Cap racer's skid marks passing the designated pit lot. His crew chief complained a colorful array of 'encouragement' as J.D McPillar reversed with a hefty rev, stopping for his waiting pities.

"Dang!" Darrell called on, "you gotta pay attention to your speed on in the pits, I haven't seen a miss like that in years!"

Chick gazed to mess below with a cheeky grin, "That's screws his time up BAD—"

"Ahem! twenty-two seconds to change tires," Natalie ignored Hick's ogling at her, and watched the racer speed onto the track, "He could probably fix that with his last lap."

Shannon nodded her hood, "That is true, Natalie," the footage panned to McPillar racing around turn two, "It's crucial to know that a pit stop can happen on any lap, granted, the racer decides to."

Hicks scoffed, rolling his eyes in a pitiful play, "I know thaat."

With a wave of the checkered flag, signalling the end of McPillar's round, the racer was quick to scold his crew chief. The Tow Cap racer shoved a small gas can over with an angry tire. His green glare pierced frustration as one of his pities offered him 'gems', a pair of sun shades and a cooled quart of Liquid Adrenaline. Sipping his woes away, and planting the sunglasses on, J.D left his chief dumbfounded as he headed to his trailer piqued.

Witnessing the exchange, Ray felt his circuits ping some relief. He hadn't dealt with flack like that in months— scratch that, nearly a year. He noticed a livery mass pulling up to the edge of rubble strip. Rolling to a stop, Storm observed the track silently. His eyes analyzed the wide turns, likely picturing himself maneuvering through each token the simulator prepared. In due time, his grey ominous panning followed down the pit lane, and down the stations. He was far from nervous, seemingly hardly impressed either. No doubt, he was definitely well prepared.

To be properly honest, Ray was surprised to see him venture into the public's attention at all. He settled for small talk instead of prying.

"All set to win that seat?" Reverham asked, looming over the champion on his perch above.

"All set," Storm replied simply, keeping his focus on the Speedway in front.

Darting around Piston Cup staff, the modern diesel engine braked in the distance, "STORM!"

Attuned to the familiar voice, Jackson reversed, cuing a soft rev on his engine. He raised a lid, and glanced to his hauler, giving her his undivided attention.

"You've got a call waiting in the trailer!" Gale announced, gesturing her tire in its direction. Ray watched Storm silently deconstruct the sentence. He blinked his listening face away, and returned to his neutral half-closed relaxation. Storm finished his perfect three-point-turn, and cruised off without words.

Reaching the sleek black trailer, Storm opened the hatch, reading the caller ID as the door cranked down slowly. T. Rodrigez- Agent. Reversing inside, he closed the door, taking a minute to contemplate answering the call at all. What did he have to lose? Jackson unmute the speaker with the tap of his tire on the touch screen, letting his eyes roam freely around the mostly barren space.

Storm exhaled, his voice filling the trailer, "What'd you want?"

On the other end, a muffled speaker in the background could be heard. The Rhode Island accent grew louder, "... Jus' let 'em know all I can do is ask... none of that magic stuff— alright, alright, I gotta take this call."

Noting his star client, Rodrigez checked in, "Hey, Storm-chaser! Look, I know you're busy— I was jus' checking up on you, how's it going over there?"

"It's fine, what else is new?" Storm answered, watching the sun rays scatter in sparkling shades against the dim blue interior.

"Ah come on, don't act like you don't know it. That rep of yours is finally jetting to the moon."

Jackson blinked slow, "What are you talking about now? You mean that sappy stuff you made me do the other day?" he scoffed.

"You know we didn't force you into it, but you took my brilliant advice anyway, so good!" Rodrigez could hear the racer grumbling low as he chuckled, "Who knew you could be such a softy, embracing and all that cuddling stuff..."

Storm curled his mouth incredulous, now looking directly at the phone, "Put a nozzle in it. I'm not a hundred percent in on these ideas."

"But ya still took the opportunity and cooked it up real nice. In fact, you did more than you needed," Rodrigez snorted a chuckle at the teasing comment, "Everyone's enjoying their cake. You, the media, and that sweet fan of yours. Feelin' like one million dollars."

Jackson gritted his teeth, exhaling sharply through. He didn't need to be reminded about it all the time.

"Are you done? I've got things to do."

"Yeah," Rodrigez flattened, "I'm finished. You got your snuggles, and you got your rep fixed. How about them apples?"

The racer didn't budge a word or sound through the call.

Rodrigez sighed, "I'm doin' great, thanks for askin'. Look, more interviews and deals are lining up for you, I'll email you the shots, let me know when to fire 'em. Anyway, I gotta run; later." Jackson's grey eyes looked about the phone with slight movement, still disgusted. Dial tone echoed through the space, and he pushed his tread against the red phone icon, ending the call.

Frustration poured in, and Storm's axles stiffened from their usual relaxation. He glanced to the heavy tinted windows, hearing a P.A announcement for the next guy to head to the track, that eased the air a bit. His RPM's were picking up, he was ready up for his run. It would be a piece of cake, no doubt. The once razor-edge anxiety of getting into the big leagues was long gone. He dropped that annoyed face, settling instead for a straight emotionless one. He didn't need to waste his time chatting with irksome camera cars either.

Ray had to be content with him. He was the first racer who didn't need to rev his engine on every lasting appearance. Storms were unpredictable, mysterious even, but to the car himself parked silently in his trailer, loud thunder was an accusation to be battled. The chief could vividly remember the once-rookie being the ghostly entity in the room. His cab was built full of celerity, competence that was already tuned when he cruised into the academy track.

But, the guy—the Champion in question was far from noise and gluttony youngsters in the Cup lived for. Storm could rip apart the track with rumbling quakes, and then pass at a responsible level of street driving in your rear-mirror with nothing frightening past a soft idle of his precision engine. If you were lucky, he would give second glance when he was specific to acknowledge you were in his space cushion.

Jackson toggled his trailer's digital settings with a tire on the wall touch screen. He paused for a moment, scrutinizing the home page's dull, default factory set. Phones were nice, home systems were nicer— but he didn't have time for that.

At least, not usually... unlike right now. Storm pushed the _settings_ button, toggling the menu array.

Tim Treadless didn't expect to arrive late, but peering outside the warmed trailer's windows, he guessed it was a better option. RSN crew were littered all over the premises, and if Treadless was certain of one thing, they would be after the closest race car they could hound for camera time.

Tim sniffed, yawning till his sinuses caught him, and he sneezed, releasing a rev and flicker of his high beam lights. The racer released his brakes, allowing his gear to roll in neutral about the trailer. Temperature inside remained a sticky humid, and the Nitroade racer sniffed once more, reversing onto to the comfort of a large heated cushion. Tim extended out his axles, letting the heat circulate his chilly undercarriage.

Qualifiers were scheduled on the worst day. A cold, seriously? Tim coughed, feeling the snotty phlem of sticky oil leaking through his grille. He grimaced, feeling another messy sneeze creeping in.

Noise outside the parked moving van alerted him for a second, and the racer glimpsed into the stinging glare of sunlight to see his hauler and pit crew chatting. One of his the tugs approached the trailer door, disappearing out of Tim's line of sight. The racer looked ahead, hearing a heavy series of knocks on the door that strained his cabache further.

The team watched as the door opened in record time, and Treadless loomed over, his entire existence weary and slumped. He blinked slowly under the heavy sun rays emphasizing the reddening on each end of his windshield. He sniffed again.

"Can't we just reschedule this?" Treadless asked, voice nasally.

The team exchanged glances, and collectively rested their sights on the crew chief, "Not this time, Tim." the Chevrolet pick-up glanced inside the trailer, soon looking back to Tim, his eyes closing from fatigue.

"You're gonna just have to drink the Robatane syrup for now, take ten minutes, Octane Gain isn't even out on the track yet, you've got time."

Tim's closed lids raised in a drowsy state of acknowledgement, and he reversed inside, closing the hatch.

When the homely mood settled in once more, Tim slumped on his chassis, snorting down phlegm he refused to loogie all over his trailer. This had to be all over with soon, but he wasn't sure he was prepared to speed with a leaky air filter. Tim grumbled, shielding stray sunlight from his windshield with his tread. The day couldn't move any slower than he would on the track.

Press Box two was the life of the party, at least, as far of Chick Hicks was concerned. He grinned, watching the stunning statistician call out her numbers in a radiant confidence he was sure he wouldn't find in any car but himself. Plus, Natalie was that slinky maroon color cars rarely wore. She loved playing hard to get, but Hicks was sure she'd give in sooner or later. He had a Piston Cup under his treads, won against the old man Weathers and "Ka-Lose". Come on now, did she want roses that matched the shine of her rims? Women were too difficult, but McQueen had one didn't he? Chick rolled his tongue in thought, checking Certain out as she glanced his way during her nonchalant mathematical drabble. His girl was a Porsche too— spoiled cars. Likely had him wrapped around her tire as McQueen showered her in expensive affection, yeah right...

Cartrip and Cutlass looked way too excited on the other end of the speedway.

"Hold onto your horsepower, folks," Darrell brightened, staring down the racer lining himself up on Pit Road, "this is the moment all of us are waiting to see!"

Ray adjusted his headset, watching Jackson line his glowing tires to an inference line of bravado. Network crew chattered lightly, marvelling at the car feet away from their parking on the infield. For a moment, Jackson's enigmatic nature turned ever so slightly their way, and Chuck made eye contact with those grey orbs, expressionless hood. Something about this guy was intimidating, but far from eerie— mysterious was the right word. Storm's eyes scanned the cars with subtle movement, and some of their cameras stopped flashing in the cloudy stare. Moments later, his smirk grew, and the journalists grinned in glee, resuming their antics. Jackson chuckled smoothly, turning his attention back to the track.

"Storm are you at all nervous!?" a voice in the crowd called over the unison of chatter.

"Look how shiny he is..." another whispered loudly.

Ray's tone came through, "Alright, you know what to do. Good luck."

Storm's eyes turned to his chief parked to his right above, "Yeah, the usual," the racer gave him a half-smile, "Thanks."

The ground trembled, and the regular cars around reversed, startled as Storm ignited his engine, revving loudly with as little as a blink of his eyes. His smirk returned as the cars cheered, huddling for the best shot.

Within seconds, he raced down the stretch, his engine becoming a musical echo as Storm rocketed around the track.

"I don't think I've ever seen a car catch a line that fast!" Darrell's eyes followed Jackson around turn one, "Bob! Are you seein' this?" Across, Chick and Natalie watched in silent awe.

Tim readily decided this was— once again, the worst time to exit his trailer. Besides some cars sneaking into the stadium gates near the back lots, there was noise and chatting everywhere. There was Storm on the jumbotron, going... faster...

Treadless pulled up to his crew, too transfixed on the sensational track star to notice him. Storm was headed to the pits. The whizzing of his engine grew louder as he pulled into IGNTR's pit stop. He waited patiently as the changed his tires, filled his tank. The tugs were out of his way before he raced off, already faster than eighty miles as the black blur trailed a gust of track marbles over the Pit barrier. Treadless sneezed, groaning in annoyance of the dust.

"Hey! You're awake," his chief called, smiling. The Nitroade crew laughed as Tim grimaced in the dust, uninterested in the attention on him.

Natalie stared at her previous data on Jackson Storm, intently interested in her figures, she exchanged a headlight-to-headlight grin with Chick, "211, 12.9 seconds to pit."

Tim watched two IGNTR tugs club their forks together in shared praise. Two-hundred and eleven? Was Storm on high-grade? Treadless hid his scorn as he reversed his front end out of view.

"You're doing great!" Ray called, eyeing Storm's travel into the second lap.

"I know," Jackson commented, eyes following the road. His threshold changed, and he seemed to go faster. Concentration and liberty took over, and Storm didn't have to say anything else.

"Turn two is known to be a tight spot when racers occupy the track together," Shannon reversed from her place in front of the camera, revealing Jackson Storm speeding in the distance, "but watch as racer number twenty, Jackson Storm makes the entire run, look like a drive in the park, as he takes on each turn going over 202— the average Next-Gen speed."

Darrell hooted in the heat of excitement, "Look at him go, and the line is just perfect like most Next-Generation race cars."

"Definitely a precise ability of Jackson Storm, and here he comes to the checkered flag," Bob remarked impressed.

Dexter Hoover's raised tire, flag in rim looked reasonably dettered in the moment. His podium rumbled as the racer approached at high speed, his expression a twine of neutrality and determination. With a second to zip by, the pick-up truck launched his flag down, signalling the end of Storm's run.

"Hoo-wee! That was one hell'uva rush!" Darrell cheered he watched Storm slow down on a third lap around, "Natalie, wanna give us those scores?"

"You could say the other guys might as well go home till the 500," Chick joked, "Stormy-Boy's shredded the track again!"

Natalie nodded in agreement, "An excellent score! In fact Jackson Storm just set a new Piston Cup record today," she watched him slow down on Pit Road, his smirk growing as the RSN flashes followed him down the road, some cars traversing over the safe barrier to get closer.

"25.7 seconds, and 213 miles per hour, the fastest lap ever recorded!"

"Wow," Bob said, astonished. Darrell spun on his tires, continuous hoots of praise.

Trackside, Storm wasted little time heading towards the score tent, wanting to see his data himself whilst basting in the praise. Hot on the racers rear were cars all over his space cushion, he ignored them swiftly until otherwise needed.

Entering the tent, a red Versa was startled when his camera tipped over its propped tripod. He accelerated forward to reach it, bumping his right headlight into Jackson Storm's fender. Horror and embarrassment filled the sedan's hood as Storm made swift eye-contact with the car.

"I am so sorry!" the Versa's tone resonated stiffness as he reversed to inspect any visible damage, "It won't happen again!"

"Yeah," Storm maneuvered around him, uncaring for any damages in the moment, "Just watch it. Next time."

The sedan nodded, surprised his hood wasn't in the nearest junkyard.

Shannon squeezed her way through, honking when the tight space almost led to a collision into her. Making her way around, she found Storm grinning for the cameras.

"Jackson! How would you say that last lap went?" she came closer as a boom mic loomed overhead.

The racer looked the camera head-on, turning on his tires, "Exactly as planned," he replied, husk slight in his confident tone. Shannon pinned in, lining up beside Jackson Storm taking little notice in her.

"So Jackson, your fan base wants to know," she glance to the camera with a grin, "How do you go so damn fast!?"

the small audience laughed in unison, and the racer chortled in, allowing the crowd to cool down, "What can I say? it's just the way I am."

"Raw talent!" Chuck churned behind his camera, as the cars chattered once more.

"So the last thing on all our minds is— now that poles are advancing, and you more than likely have the sitter won, What is your outlook for McQueen at the upcoming 500?"

The boom mics came in closer, and Storm's unique dumbfounded expression was hard to miss. He wasn't ready for that one. McQueen was coming back? Since when…

"Uh..." he shook his hood in dissonance, "Well good luck to him, he was here for a long time before us, track master and all that..."

Shannon nodded collectively with the cars, watching the racer make his exit. She smiled to the LIVE film, "Jackson Storm, still setting records a year over, LIVE from Florida S.S."

Leaving the coolant tent, Barry Depedal watched Storm pass, camera in pursuit after him and his following crew. Security trucks merged in line with the racer's blind spots as he bee-lined to his trailer.

Adjacent, Depedal watched as some teenagers scaled an opened break in the stadium's back gate. One of them, a young coupe with a lavender paint scheme, and an abstract design of livery color on her hood. Her over-reacting screech as the fence's jagged edges scratched her metal pierced his hearing, and the RPM racer squinted in grimace. He reversed out of sight, Storm was headed her way, and she was speeding down the trail of grass, bouncing giddily on her hydraulics as she caught sight of her idol. The antenna ball matched Storm's decals... oh, this was gonna be good. Barry grinned, watching the show commence.

She nearly ran into him, and Jackson Storm was quick on his tires, his reaction time was spot on when he braked curving around her without so much as a glimpse to the bomb on her roof. She hardly reversed to give the security trucks room, and she squealed a shrill that was annoying from the distance away.

"Chrysler! I just got here— oh my gosh!" her pre-teen galore was hefty as she followed, swiftly being shoved away by the menacing SUV.

"Storm! JAACKSOON!"

Jackson didn't budge, hardly interested in more talk. His tires kept rolling as if she wasn't there.

She panted, soon catching up the the racer.

"STOOORRM, I WANT AN AUTOGRAPH! RIGHT NOW!"

He didn't really care, or maybe he didn't hear those wild primitive screeches. Storm was turning into the parking lot when she arrived at his side again, her quick horsepower outmatching the larger vehicles.

"Hey! My mom said you have to give me an autograph!" she shoved a sheet of blank Bristol board near Storm's left fender, "Right here!"

"Yeah, well she's wrong," Storm replied bold, locating his trailer as his team followed, "I've got places to be." he rolled off just as security held her in place with a brake check in front, another sedan cruiser blocked her left exit to follow.

"He ain't giving autographs right now," the older Explorer lectured, "Come back during the Florida 500."

She gave him an incredulous look, "No! I came all the way over here!" she gestured her trespassing entrance, "Its no big deal he can just sign it!" she cut around the left side, crossing the SUV's rear. For a moment, she could have dashed after Storm, and his crew chief loomed nearby, knowing it from her reckless movement.

"Get her out," the cruiser growled, "you shouldn't even be in here!"

Depedal miffed at the tone of her whines as security gave her a rear-end push out of the lot. The RPM racer decided to head over.

"Hey!" Barry called, seeing her look him up and down, "I'll give you my autograph, how 'bout it?"

The tyke paused a moment, looking him over with that same pitiful face, "Who are you!? I want a Jackson Storm autograph!" The security cruiser rolled his eyes. Barry's lower lid twitched, lucky to not be on RSN cameras.

"Okay," Depedal shrugged his fenders, "Then, go I guess..."

She wasn't listening, still trying to reverse while the SUV easily pushed her skidding tires kicking up dust and gravel.

Chrysler, these kids...


	39. Better Luck Next Lap

**_author's note:_**

it's been over a month! Yes this story is still going and going! I hope I didn't keep you guys waiting too too long— I've run into some spells of writer's block, and it makes constructing the story this far more difficult. Rest assured, I have more chapters for you.

So, Melise is actually based off the S2000 2017/2018 concept. I hadn't realized the vehicle didn't actually exist yet past visual construction, because well, I don't exactly drive much in real life either. Kind of a shallow brain when it comes to vehicles, but I try!

Stay tuned, I'm going to try my best to update within days like I did when I first began this fiction, I owe you that much!

* * *

They called it "aerodynamic shape". Square lights that streaked the sides of a speeding car, and paved a path of status. Detailed design was in the engine, some of the fittest vehicles that drove the world. That standard beauty that swooned ladies with streamline, and beckoned men with curves. Sure, any car could get those Le Mans genes, but on the contrary, few could pack the horsepower that came with it.

That didn't really matter though, different cars had better qualities to take on, they didn't need to ride low and get chassis burn on hot asphalt. "Sporty" cars ideals were getting old. Why friction downforce drag with a lame spoiler when you could be the toughest on the road instead?

Tony flexed his jaw, revving his guttural Silverado engine. He wasn't breaking much of a sweat as he tugged a single hefty oil tank from the entrance of the pit road, to the runners' secluded corner. Steel metal grinded noisily on the pavement, disturbing the nearby Yaris completing his own task. His lower lid twitched as the pick-up's obnoxious duty showered annoyance.

Yarvis let his wheel do the work, tearing the plastic sealing brand new packs of oil cans. Beside him, several large boxes waited to be opened, a long and dissatisfying stock process throughout the day.

"Can you just load 'em on your bed!?" the sedan snarled nasally, catching Tony by surprise, "Holy Chevy that's irritating!"

Tony inserted his own glare, ready to hold his ground, "So? You're opening plastic cans and tossing it all over the road!" he glanced to some bubble wrapping caught in his left mud flap, attempting to shake it lose.

"Remember when Boss said to work smart?" Yarvis rebuffed, tossing a fresh unsealed container into the growing pile, "try that." he hissed imperiously.

"Oh, so suddenly you care about…" the navy truck narrowed his lids, thought crossing his mind as he searched for a fancy word to call Yarvis. One word in his simple vocabulary to make the Toyota in front of him feel stupider than stupid.

Yarvis watched him muddled in thought, pulling a quart of iced coolant fuel close and taking a sip, "I swear Pick-up trucks are the worst."

Tony gritted his teeth. His brilliance was making them money at some point, albeit, spend on knick- knacks and obsolete items that wouldn't last. He took a glance at the silver chipping away at the grooves of his new, Carson Vitrom rims. But to call his entire being a liability? Yeah right, that was another story.

"Who is the one carrying all the tanks down Pit road!? Who was the one that towed Kessler back to the tents when he ran out of gas and got heatstoke!?" Yarvis shook his hood with the roll of his eyes. Tony was rambling his superior gold-plated engine again.

"… I've been working the hardest here! You can't even tow with those weak four-cylinders you were built with!"

The Toyota pulled angrily around his messy work station, lining up head on with the truck. Tony curled his lip defiantly, "Back up or I'll run you off the road."

Yarvis hardly flinched, "For proving my point earlier!? All you do is cause problems!" He accelerated forward, catching Tony by surprise. Metal crushed together, and the sedan growled furiously as he pushed the truck into the tents. Canisters filled with fresh oil toppled, skidding both vehicles in the fuss.

Tony found himself pinned against one of his oil dispensaries. The tank creaked and wobbled as his rear made contact with it. His shiny new rims felt like they were coming loose again. He accelerated and forced Yarvis in reverse. The cloudy mess of friction rubber brought Tony to further agitation before Yarvis reversed quickly away from the garble of smoke.

"Why the hate all of a sudden?" Tony asked mid-pant. He glanced amongst his three coworkers, "You guys never heard of teamwork?"

Yarvis scoffed, "You're the last one who should be talking about teamwork! You can barely do the job!"

The truck kept his glance crossed, "Am I the one who got fired?"

"You should've been! At least she knew how to fill the cans properly!"

Tony gave Grid and Preston an expecting glance. The two vehicles weren't defending him like they should.

"Am I the only one that heard what Boss said!?" Yarvis reversed in a quick motion, turning to face the empty speedway. Tony squinted in confusion aimed at the whining Toyota. He exchanged a glance with Grid. The grey coupe wasn't his usual upbeat self, in fact, he was as lame as Preston idling beside him. The two looked like they were low on octane, and it made for a stab at Tony's pride.

"What are you even talking about?"

Yarvis turned to face the truck. The sedan felt about his grille with his treads, searching for another reason to be angry. When he found no damage, he glared once more, "It's because you just had nothing better to do, so you had to panhandle!"

The pick-up was clueless, "Quit driving around the bush," he retorted, "I never begged anyone for money. Why would I when I have a job!?"

"The pictures you six cylinder idiot!" Yarvis yelled back, "Remember—" he looked up trying to recall their former coworker. Preston and Grid, idling silently didn't seem to care for its subject matter. Yarvis continued, "Remember 'What's her hood?' You just had to invade and take pictures when we all knew we weren't supposed to be near the race cars."

Tony's grille crinkled in stupor, "She knew she wasn't supposed to bother them either! What difference does it make!?"

"That you decided to sell them!" the sedan sprawled his tires out as he enunciated. He rolled his eyes to the obvious statement.

"And you helped!" Tony shouted with a short acceleration forward, a shameless attempt to intimidate the car, "So how is this all my fault!?"

Grid watched the two stare down each other. Tony packed those heavy axles meant for punching, they couldn't all get in trouble again. He inched forward slowly, but didn't know what else to say.

"Everyone was in on it. Grid was the mastermind behind everything, even Preston and Kessler were in on it! You included!"

The commotion was enough to bring the RAM truck into the nearby vicinity. His expression wore a permanent look of contempt. The runners' contract ended in late February and training for replacement staff was lamented. His reputation was faltering too. The oil runners turned in unison to address him approaching, uncertainty on their hoods.

"What are you doing, chatting? Get back to work."

"Sir," Yarvis called, "We've been cleaning and doing maintenance all day—"

"And I did all the heavy duty stuff," Tony interrupted proudly.

The runners' supervisor took a glance about the speedway, finding it surprisingly up to par. The oil tanks were lined up properly for once down the crew lot of Pit Road. Still, there was sand scattered on the rubble strips, blown in from Daytona outside. That needed to be swept, and shrewd list of other menial tasks to buy the time. He would praise them, had they understood this was the expected standard of minimum wage crew months prior.

"Can we go on break now?" Grid nagged on. His usual Octane Gain fan decals were missing, leaving a barren grey paint job. If the odds weren't anymore likely, that melted plastic purple goo grudgingly thrown in the entrance waste bin was melted in the Floridian heatwave. The coupe himself waited impatient and uncomfortable for his dismissal. He blinked slowly under the beating sunlight.

"One hour and a half," the RAM lectured. He reversed to let the group pass. All but one left. The navy blue pick-up truck idled with an ignoble twist of his features. With a nonchalant glance, the RAM left though a tunnelling exit to the main road, leaving them to their merits. They'd known enough not to cause trouble, and he didn't have the energy to deal with it.

Tony's composure was gnawed at the edges. The dried gravel caked on his fenders was nothing a torque powered lineage couldn't handle. However, the nagging rust of these guys and their agitation was wearing thin.

They weren't far away, and regular maintenance vehicles were continuously prepping the track. Tony wasn't alone, save for Kessler being absent in the auto shop— but with the guys parked someplace else sparce of an invitation, the itch was getting too rusty.

Grid had on that sly grin, the one that suggested he was actually enjoying Yarvis and Preston's company. The Toyota's sentences were slow judging from his mouth movement, and Preston inched forward, then in a neutral reverse of repetition. He was chilling, buying the time, probably dreaming about Lightning McQueen.

Just like that, Grid was out. Tony settled in leisure, reversing under the closest empty tent he could find. Maybe the bromance was over, but he got the last punch. Take it or leave it, Tony would veer that sedan and all his friends off the road if they decided to challenge him again. Opting to ignore the building urge, the pick-up winded down, letting his engine cool off. He closed his lids, listening to a lone Boeing plane echoing through the sky.

Shiny new rims took some getting used to, but Tony was well prepared when he bought them, at least, so he planned. The truck opened his bored lid, raising his right tire and shaking it. As to be expected, the heavy hub fell to the pavement with a thud. He had gotten used to the noise, it happened everyday. Tony hadn't thought of the likelihood of an expensive piece of material being unable to do it's one job. He pushed the rim on its display side, catching a glare of sunlight and shimmering. Some scratches trimmed the spokes, and the lugnuts were always coming loose. He scoffed, maybe it was a waste of two hundred dollars, yet, he didn't really pay for it, so it didn't sway much guilt.

Grid was under the money spell too. He had a chunk of four hundred split his way, and likely spent a quarter of it on some high-grade octane. The rest likely on as much Octane Gain souvenirs he could grab. His decals were melted in the heatwave, so a good investment was imminent. The guy was sneaky— the kind that Tony needed to compliment his gruffness.

He took a half-open glance in the direction of his friends, finding the cars gone. Immediately, Tony straightened his cab, surveying the track for them. Amongst infield grass being cut, to a single sweeper engine beginning rounds on the track, the guys were nowhere.

It was a toss away of pride for the lone pick-up truck to finally give into his curiosity, and head where the trio once were. Raising high on his suspension was a good way to waver any fear his face showed. They ditched him, and Tony would be damned if they were messing with his belongings at the motel. His frown twined with malice of the thought. What was the problem all of a sudden? Didn't they like the extra bucks to drive around with? Sheesh.

Asphalt was gritty with a cream coating of sand patches. Tony's tires grated the grains to a soothing noise all off-road cars were accustomed to. Scaling tall beside several shaded awnings was the concrete wall, covered in aqua paper. Contingency sponsors lined its base, while a fence kept soon-to-be fans secure in the grandstands. The levels were huge. Each titanium rod held up another, and yet another several hundred rows of parking for spectators. The further up his eyes travelled, the larger it massed. Fortunately, his eyes couldn't roll under his roof, yet the emphasis beckoned enough.

That's when he heard that nervous, nasally tone again. The truck brought his attention to the tunnel adjacent. It's lights were off, boring an underpass that kept all natural light out. He didn't need to guess who was inside, their hushed voices and measly headlamps did enough. Tony narrowed his features in suspicion, he couldn't make out the words, let alone what they were doing. This was the track's maintenance exit, no car— let alone race team could open the steel fencing.

Well, a strong four-by-four could ram it down, but that was besides the point...

The closer Tony etched in, articulacy was clearer. Three rear-ends faced him, their mirror's too dusty to spy him. He kept even his mediocre day lights off. These guys were up to something, and based on the nonchalant tilt of Grid's cab, Tony almost felt a sense of fright when he saw those doe eyes all over again.

Parking to the left of the double yellow line, Tony kept his sights silently peeled.

"... you just look kinda," Yarvis trailed off unsure. his socially inept nerves acted up more than usual. That nasally air filter was doing him no good. At the least, he was concerned more than utterly disturbed. The sedan normally wore some out-dated glasses, it was a good thing he wasn't wearing them now, although he couldn't look anymore pinheaded than he normally did.

Maybe it was the lighting outside, or she really did look trashy. Tony found his expression becoming a grimace, that was too harsh. He took another glance as the quad of cars discussing matters without as little as a glance his way. She was behind the fence, treads pushed against as her dumply lips were slightly parted, free of that lip gloss thing girls loved. Her cheeks were flushed heavily, contrasting the gravelling loom of dissonance on her features to the comments on her appearance. She listened to Yarvis stumble to come up with words to a question. She blinked wearily, probably annoyed. Tony's late arrival would hardly have an explanation either. After all, they excluded him.

"Does it not sound fair?"

Chrysler! He almost forgot how soft her voice was. Like a drive on a brand new paved highway. The guilt was coming back, and coincidentally, his designer rim came loose again. It's heavy weight slid down his tread, shuddering on the asphalt. The noise didn't stir them, thankfully, yet Tony's horrified expression as he tucked the hub under his front end, holding it sheepishly in place with his now bland right tire.

"Uh," Grid looked amongst his pals, "we didn't make those pictures."

"Oh, you did," Melise deadpanned. Those doe eyes declared a vendetta. Smeared makeup that dried around peeling chrome-yellow polish. Black and grey sparkling liquid stained her inner hood, and fell in crescent down her round quarters. It all made for an unwavering, yet increasingly creepy antagonism.

"And you sold them to any vehicle whose lives were boring enough to buy it."

Based on his frozen position, Tony could've guessed Grid was stumped. The other two sedans kept quiet. Preston's back tires shook slightly, feverishly trying to mask his own pure guilt. He was good to her. However, he was also keen to follow the crowd.

Her sullen eyes scanned the three with an elegant edge of loath, "Tell me," she queried softly, "Why did you do it?"

When no one answered, she enumerated further, "Was the twenty dollars an hour to fix cans of oil too little for you? Perhaps you couldn't stand having someone around who took the silly little job seriously."

Tony nearly hit his gear to traverse back through the tunnel when Yarvis' white reverse lights came on. Saved by chance again, the Toyota only cleared a small stretch just short of a meter. Red halting lights replaced the white once the comfortable distance was made.

"Yeah, but, we weren't all over Jackson Storm like a gnat," Grid defended sharply.

"Wholesome retort," she interposed, "Yet you suckled on making money off me like a parched mosquito."

The grey coupe had nothing else to say, and Tony wished he could see his expression. Neither were wrong in the calm debacle, but the rusty itch of culpability was still one-sided. It was only easier to ignore when it wasn't idling in front of you.

"We really didn't mean to get you fired," Yarvis' voice was wobbly, "it was all Tony's idea."

He fought the urge to snort piercingly. They really were trying to make this a fight night. Funny how much sedans loved to talk smack until a four-by-four was head-on with them.

"If you want to apologize, save it for the track," Melise rejected, "you can take up my fair offer, or wait for a letter in the mail from a lawyer."

Tony's engine felt cold despite the heat. She was prepared to sue them all of a sudden? Weeks to months later? He already spent some of his share. Chevy...

"Please," Yavis protested, his voice still stuffy, "don't take this to court, we—"

"We've already stopped selling them," Preston squeezed in. He was practically jittering in fear, "the supervisor stopped it."

"YOU ONLY CARED WHEN YOU WERE CAUGHT, RED-BUMPERED!" she bellowed. The trio collectively shuddered at the resonance of her ortund tone.

"We can settle this fair and square," Melise's voice softened, "if I win, you give me all the money you made off of me, zero lawsuits," she pressed her treads to indent the fencing cubes, "or, if you win, you go into hiding off-road, and pray I don't find you."

Damn, the odds were all against them. She was razor-sharp in her challenge. If she really wanted to do this, she was nuts. Racing a convertible? A dainty coupe like her wasn't fast. No way.

"But we don't have racing tires," Yarvis scrambled to excuse.

"Then it will be absolutely fair, because neither do I," Melise answered, a cheerful blow in her voice sent another shiver through Tony's circuits.

"Fine," Grid answered confident, "I'll do it, no sweat."

She looked at the other two, awaiting their options. Yarvis sucked a deep breath through his grille, "Fine. Fine then."

Preston looked unsure before staying true to his nurture of being a follower. He nodded his hood, clear fright twisted his features, although, Tony was certain it was merely the mention of a lawsuit.

"Is six o'clock okay? I know they usually close the track at 7:30." she asked. The trio looked amongst one another in unison. In their greatest rivalry, she was still punctual.

"Six it is," Grid snarled, "and just so you know, this is a dumb idea."

She reversed from the confines, "Only because you'll lose."

Tony took the cue, using his mirrors to guide the way back into sunshine. They couldn't stick around moping in that tunnel forever.

Once he hit the nearest EXIT, main road traffic coursed off the ramp above. The only way out was via the freeway route. Chrysler did he need a breather. Where did she come from anyway? It didn't help that she resembled road kill. The last car he needed to see was Melise Rūūnes. On the contrary, he would actually pay to see Yarvis' face when she appeared. Dorks were their own comedy show when they were in the same vicinity.

Tony would have to come back after break was over. Right now, he needed to find a crafty hideout in the fish bowl to watch the duel.

* * *

The effort was fleeting, and the drive gave some time to do something foreign since the past two days, think.

Her right turn signal was blinking. She idled at the edge of the curb, hardly paying much attention to the cars with the right-of-way on the main road. If she wasn't mistaken, most of them gave her a quick once over as they passed, some adjusted their mirrors for a second glance. At this point, she wasn't sure if it was due to a rubbish magazine article, or indifference caution on the roads.

The traffic light down the street was now amber, and she pulled out, free of absent traffic. Following the road, her glazed over eyes bore no wonder to the scenery. Daytona had a peaceful sunset over the waters, something she didn't care for.

Her lips were dry, much like the polish around her chassis. Sure, she had spoiled herself with a hot car wash, the jelly ultra shine even made her smell of pomegranates, her favourite. The stripping of wrapping irritated her natural hue. The cab was clean of splotchy makeup, left ashen and lifeless. Nevertheless, a wash couldn't remove mischief that was twined through her circuits.

The approaching light was green, yet she hardly acknowledged the Tucson that cut in front of he on his right turn. Slowing down was as much as needed, the speed limit existed for a reason. He groaned impatient as the next light abruptly became amber to a quick red. The moment was enough to look about her space cushion. Intuition Rule of the Road: One, it was always awkward to look at the driver beside you. Staring? Above all, weird. The traffic light couldn't take any longer to change, and the Kia sedan to the left lane couldn't be anymore of a gawker. He zoned over her curled cab, shamelessly checking out her hood last. With several spaced out slow blinks, she ignored it.

At times like this, it became increasingly obvious she was exquisite, notably more than she let herself acknowledge. Regardless, there was more to a car than their curves and plump lips.

The traffic moved through. As fast as he appeared, the Kia was off to his destination in the fast lane. A lone ramp swiveled to the ominous glowing dome a reasonable distance away. The first time she pryed there was no need to venture inside. She didn't need more reason to scorn her name. This time, she had to travel along the main route, giving way to nostalgia she wished wasn't so vivid.

It pissed her off, more than she expected it to. Whatever, she could have her comeuppance in about an hour.

Normally, this avenue would be backed up to Route 1, stretching down the freeway and congesting. Right now, with the evening sunset on the horizon behind the blue glow, and an ocean breeze through the empty street, she could take a deep breath. No reminiscence, just breathing.

They left the gate open for her. How kind of them.

She rounded the lit tunnel, only slightly claustrophobic as it winded to the track's back lot. Near the cavernous end, a green arrow perched below a sign. It read: STAFF ONLY.

The voices hushed as her engine echoed the tunnel. After a moment of braking and looking about the huge empty speedway, the same Toyota from earlier poked his hood out. He pulled himself from the safety behind three empty utility trailers.

"We thought you were security," Grid's nervous laugh came from the grandstands just above her. Beside him, Preston smiled awkwardly.

"I didn't spot any security cars around," Melise made a wide left turn. Her tires stopped where her eyes could see the duo and Yaris approaching.

"We didn't think they were around either, then we got caught a few times," Grid replied. He followed the red sedan down the ramp, disappearing behind interconnected tunnels.

With some confusion, the two cars emerged through a tunnel labeled as 'TWO'. Preston's eyes searched about, trying to figure out the elaborate maze he just rushed through.

"Okay, we're all here now," Yarvis stated. He looked at her, "we decided on ten laps."

Melise giggled, somewhat, the burst fell into snickers. She followed the Yaris to the Pits.

"What's so funny?" Preston asked.

"I just figured you would choose like forty, or a hundred laps," she answered simply and sweetly.

Grid rolled his eyes. She was really reaching this time around.

"Oh, and I almost forgot to mention," the convertible looked at the racer's view of the dome, scaling her eyes up the thousands of lots, "Either one of you can race on my team, or sit out."

The trio looked like Deere in the headlights.

"Wha? Wait! You want one of us to help you rob us!?" Grid raised a lid, aghasted.

"Ahem, you robbed me, remember?" her tone sounded a girly revolt as the last of the sentence went up an octave.

The trio inspected one another, trying to pin the task on one unlucky car dumb enough to take it.

"... Just—" Grid's tire, attempting to blindly point at Yarvis, ended up punching the sedan's quarter panel, causing a grimace to surface his face.

"Uh, sorry," Grid said low. He turned to look at the Honda in front. She was hardly amused, although she still smiled at his attention, "Yeah, we don't wanna race with you, only against you. That's fair."

"Fair enough," she claimed. Her tires took her to the edge of the rumble strip, and she ignored the familiar feeling of being close to the track.

"Alright," Yarvis lined up beside her. Preston hesitated, soon following a boastful Grid.

"Ah, good luck?" the Toyota commented.

The quad of potential racers were still. Grid and Preston exchanged a series of glances. Evidently, the red sedan didn't think this challenge was going to be easy. The grey coupe seemed to be waiting along with the Honda beside him. Yarvis looked to the others for guidance.

"What… now…?" he asked slowly. They weren't race cars. The odds of establishing organization for a contest of speeding was lost in the clouds. Yarvis observed the three beside him collectively glance amongst each other before settling the sights back on him. Grid gave the Yaris a dumbfounded squint, while Melise shrugged her tires.

"I think we're supposed to start our engines," Preston explained.

"Yeah, I forgot about that… part…" Grid revved his engine as loud as he could. Some stray gravel blew in Melise's breathing space, and she squinted, blinking rapidly. She started her own engine, giving two revs. Despite her small frame, the sweet sound of each high-pitched spell satisfied her RPM's.

"Remember this is ten laps, the last one finishes at the end of the pits," the Yaris pointed to the stretch that curved onto the track. Melise nodded. Her nerves were in a small bundle, and she didn't need to imagine what the real experience was like. She just needed her pride back.

Grid and Preston continued to duel in revs. When "GO!" echoed the arena, Yarvis was perplexed in a haze of burning rubber as the three others sped down the road. He coughed, shaking it off as he hit the throttle, soon twisting in a swerve as he manuvered onto the immediate curve.

Things became a wide array of space he didn't know existed. Sure, the track was huge, they all were. But Chrysler, the regular roads weren't this wide, and it was all for himself to occupy.

Up ahead, the engines were mostly mute. They were already near the first— or second, he didn't know the logistics— turn. The shade made vision hazy, but they were all in close proximity. Sloping up the curve, Preston skidded, screaming in an array of squeals before regaining his messy line. He caught back up to the two leading. Grid barred his teeth, the wind blew into his cheeks for a humorous image. Only a few inches behind his rear was the Honda herself. She strained her eyes to keep open, looking in her mirror and in front every few seconds. Her bottom lip was sucked in.

It took eight laps before Yarvis reached the trio, still lagging behind in meters. Every turn consisted of Preston shrieking as he nearly spun out. The Toyota hated to admit it, but he wasn't going to be in first place if he only caught up to them when Preston slipped. The red sedan was pushing himself way to hard, and his engine was going to betray him soon enough.

The Pits were the place to finish after this last lap. She was exhausted, but she wasn't showing it. Grid's RPM's were sky-high, yet he didn't miss a beat. His engine shrilled as pushed himself, moving a foot ahead of her. His win was right around the corner. Sliding off the rumble strips, Grid braked into some spare oil cans. The noise didn't bother him much, he bounced in celebration. That win was all too easy.

Yet, the pale convertible zoomed past him at full speed. He caught sight of her bemused expression as she passed down the stretch of Pit road. Once she entered the track again, she exhaled loudly, falling on her suspension as she slowed down. The convertible slumped enervated on the grassy infield. Her cab rose and fell with panting.

"Dude!" Yarvis caught up, "What the hell are you doing!?"

"What'ya mean?" Grid accused, "I just won us keepsake."

Yarvis shook his hood breathless, "No! I said the race finishes… at the end of the Pits!"

Grid buried his hood in empty treads, "Seriously, you never said that!"

Preston dragged himself on walking tires, "G,G" he wobbled, "Good game."

"I did you numb hood, I said it while we were revving!"

"I never heard it! How was I supposed to know!"

Yarvis hollered in defeat. He threw his tires in the air, shaking his hood in disbelief at the dire mistake. That was such a bonehead move.

From the safety of the grandstands, hysterical laughter flooded in. Grid's embarrassment pulled him to glare in the direction first, expectant of the navy pick-up truck's presence.

Much to the boys' chagrin, there were some on-lookers who had snuck into the speedway too. Yarvis squinted, making out the chrome polish of each. They looked burly, confident and different. When one of them shifted in nonchalance, revealing decals with a boldly defined number, the Toyota's grille twisted to an expression of distress, fatigue and unprepared defeat.

They had a small audience of Next-Gens. The loss just became that much worse. And to a girl...

Grid couldn't look at them. His eyes followed the track to the short distance where she stopped. Her tires were sprawled out, lids fluttered closed. A gentle smile grazed her features.

Dammit...

The racers etched close to the edge of the second platforming. His deep green paintjob could be mistaken for black in evening light. Racer eighty-two, Conrad Camber was his name— Grid knew all the modern racers' names. He was sponsored under Shiny Wax. Based alone on the shimmer of his polished finish, the guy was all over the brand too.

"I think we found Dinoco's new racer!" Conrad joked. Beside him, Hollis and Barry chuckled.

Grid raised a lid, were they complimenting?

"I almost beat her," he replied with an exhale.

"That's why you can race with Rusteze!" Barry poked. Realizing what they meant, the grey coupe rolled his eyes, pouting again.

"Hey! Hey! No hard feelings," Barry continued, calming down, "We came down here to do a couple laps, didn't expect to find the track occupied."

"Still that was a bad run, bro!" Conrad called to Preston, "less screaming, more driving next time."

The red sedan was still trying to catch his breath, his eyes shifting amongst them.

Worst. Day. Ever.


	40. There She Goes

_author's note : I went through a serious case of writer's block for several weeks. Taking the time to piece over this story thus far, i actually made a flowchart to detail the journey, and the rest to follow. It helped a bunch. I'm sorry for the major delay. Also, I noticed some goofs I made, specifically, calling Reyna a BMW right after the previous chapter she is introduced in says she is a Lexus. She is a BMW Moreover, I've observed my writing evolve some, it's kind of neat. _

_Dear guests and followers, thank you for you reviews and critique of the story. Typically, I try to leave the questions related to my OC or other characters as a sort of ''read between the lines" thing, as all of them evolve with the next chapter and so on and so forth. Essentially Melise is down to earth and classy, a pleasant medium to the hustle and bustle of the fast-lane Jackson is in. Based on the book and Storm's personality in the movie, he is the more chill type, and he doesn't care much for flashy things, just good publicity and valor for bravado on the track. He likes the attention, but doesn't live for it 24/7 like McQueen did in the first film (namely his daydreams). Everyone needs that balanced medium._

 _this ramble has ended, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. More to come, cheerio! please review, I love hearing from you!_

* * *

From the edge of the module, Leon watched the chief work his magic. Keying his tires into each button pedal, he uploaded the modded data into the racing simulator. The 'lift sat back, satisfied, this was his own creation made by tweaking the system's original file. Ray asked for it to the pit crew's surprise. Nonetheless, the astounding reality of seeing Ray use technology with A-level understanding was more impressive than the mod itself.

"So is McQueen supposed to be motivation now?" Leon inquired. Ray reversed from the system setting pedals, heading around to the driver's treadmill, " Cars like Lightning McQueen have always been motivation for Jackson," the pickup replied. He glanced to the forklift as the machine raised the lift. Leon began preparing the commence of the virtual race. He listened to the chief as he booting up the controls, "that's why we put him in the simulator."

It made sense, albeit, in vain. Overweening was Storm's new specialty, and the Press had little contrition in the making of his media biography. By now, his pit crew were known by their names, and when the opportunity was desperate, they were prodded for interviews when the racer himself, alongside Ray, were unavailable to take return their calls.

The tug almost forgot the chief was racing virtual race cars for the first time where he could see it. Pickups weren't fast, and the generic racers in game easily passed him. It didn't help that he was also nearly two decades their senior, like McQueen. Ray maintained a comfortable speed just past one hundred miles, and the familiar red race car passed him in the middle of the pack, fifth place.

"Damn, that's surreal," Leon muttered as the vehicles disappeared around turn one, "I uploaded McQueen using his track stats from Copper Canyon. He's still doing a decent run against pumped up Next-Gen generics."

Ray paused the screen pedal with one of his free tires. The treadmill lowered to the ramp, allowing the pickup to reverse off.

"They don't call him Lightning for no reason," Ray stated, turning to the waiting loader, "But the storm always comes first."

Leon snorted, "Ain't that the truth." The forklift reset the simulation, taking it back to the menu screen where he could power it down.

"So, are you gonna tell him, or am I?"

Ray raised a lid, "about McQueen?"

Leon nodded, as he watched the computers in front of him shut down, "You think knows yet?"

Ray allowed the exit automatic doors slide open as he braked in front of them. Leon followed behind, both keeping their headlights off in the darkened, theatre-like corridor.

"News flies around fast with those social media sites you kids use nowadays. I wouldn't doubt Jackson knows McQueen's coming back," Ray answered.

"Or care," Leon added. The duo eventually reached the main floor, heavily sunlit with its wide-framed glass walls.

"Besides," Ray continued, "If he doesn't know now, he will tonight when he works out."

The pickup glanced aimlessly around the main ground, finding no cars in sight. He headed to the elevator, Leon still following close.

It was two o'clock on the hour, and much of the facility's trainees were shipped off to sponsors willing to take them under their profits. The cars would have to compete against some of the top athletes across major leagues, schools, and _'freshies'_ off the streets lucky enough to make it big. They would be inside the same virtual pool Jackson began his legacy— hundreds of 'em fighting to impress the next sponsor willing to subsidize. If Ray's intuition was any more keen, he could be Jackson himself. Everyone knew he would win timelessly against the next advanced rookie of the year. This was nothing to prepare for, rather, a new way to relax.

Once the doors opened on floor _'L'_ , Leon glimpsed about the small lounge, finding the space rather personal in nature. Dimming curtains were closed along the huge windows, and a single tire mat sat adjacent to an empty crevice for a simulator at the center. Forgotten in the corner, just behind the long drapes, a six-quart pack of Liquid Adrenaline: Original.

"Where are we?" Leon whispered, the quiet setting instinctively ushering manners.

Ray looked at the loader, "In Storm's room," the pickup answered, voice loud and clear. He headed towards a closed door requiring a tread scan for entry, knocking firmly three times.

"Storm! Get up!"

The comfortable silence resumed as the Chief waited. Leon watched the darkness under the door, keeping his voice low, "He's _still_ asleep? It's nearly three PM."

The door opened halfway as the outstretched Lightyear tire rested back on the floor. Ray lined up alongside the doorway, pushing the door open further. Jackson yawned, eyes closing from their weary, opened state under irritating stray sunlight escaping through the lounge room curtains.

"Time to rise," Ray lectured, looking the racer down as he ignored the moderate mess of constantly received sponsor trinkets strewn about behind him, "It's after one. You set conditioning exercises for four o'clock today, and you haven't made time for brunch yet."

The racer's face remained spent, grey eyes hardly concerned, "I'm aware," he replied, voice groggy. "Give me another hour… and half." Storm reversed into the room, disappearing in the blackout interior.

" _ANOTHER HOUR!?_ " Ray huffed through his grille, "Your schedule is booked today, don't waste it!"

Leon glimpsed inside, unable to see much. Nonetheless, it was clear Jackson was undeterred by the Chief's howls. Ray soon gave up, leaving the door opened. Heading back to the elevator, Leon shook his hood, grinning.

The doors closed after the chime, "We're gonna send a large mug of caffeinated low-grade to his room in a minute."

Leon snickered, "Storm drinks coffee?"

Ray focussed on the digitized floor numbers decreasing above, "If he's going to be on time for afternoon breakfast, he'd better finish the cup."

* * *

The steam from the hot pint of nutrition had simmered down a while ago. Parked opposite, Ray contemplated behind his newspaper, putting the meal in the microwave. It packed all the protein cars needed to function on a several hour race. Ray had heard the trainees grumble of the mid-grade meals. Never mind the appearance matching blended leaves, rather, it was the unappetizing taste. Jackson in particular, would leave the fussing far behind, he precisely had better things to do. In accordance to himself, they were no one's business.

Ray glazed over the canister again, opting against further nonsense to debate intellectually. Storm was the only car he'd ever overindulge. The kid had it rough from the get go, yet he pushed through, and kept on pushing. He didn't need any more nanny services, and with his general repute, Jackson was not the type to invite coddling. to put it simply, he didn't roll that way either.

With the chime of the elevator, Ray heard the electric rev follow close after. Storm approached from the left side, making a slow U-turn to his side of the table, eyes focussed on the raw meal.

"You remember that trophy I got months ago?" Storm pointed out, glancing from the surrounding to his crew chief, "That wasn't my Piston Cup."

"Good afternoon," the pickup greeted flatly, giving the racer a quick once over, "That was the half-season award. It means you won more poles than half the year."

Storm thought about it for a moment, blinking slowly as he loomed over the can of sludge, "Okay, when do I get my Cup?"

Ray found entertainment in the sheer naivety. Storm was stubborn when he wanted to be.

"You don't remember what a Piston Cup looks like?" Jackson's eyes narrowed slow at the patronizing, " _Super Corsa: 3_ had enough of them for you to recognize."

"I get it," Storm deadpanned, "I just thought it was my Cup for the longest while, until I read it."

There was some comfortable silence as the two piped down. Storm took a long sip, stretching afterwards.

"Just don't let it get dusty and scratched when it arrives," the racer continued, "Put it in my trailer."

Ray took his eyes from the newspaper, "You want to travel with it? The road is no place for a gold cup."

Storm scoffed lightly, "I keep my valuables close."

When it was nearly four o'clock, Jackson chucked the canister into a blue bin, leaving the premise. Ray pulled up alongside him, and the two cruised down the facility south hall, narrowed temporarily towards its center by caution cones.

Approaching in the opposite lane,

a lone Veloster kept his eyes peeled on his route. Ray noted the Hatchback slowing down as he drew near the obstruction. His eyes scanned his blind spot as he began to squeeze around the same time Storm was closing in. The 'road' was big enough if done right…

Truer thoughts couldn't explain the event further than Ray expected from young drivers. The Hyundai was squeezing through, sheepishly— it was only seconds of soon-to-be shambles. However, Jackson swiftly erased the two-lanes of traffic he and Ray occupied, pulling to the far right in front of the pickup, allowing both cars to pass comfortably.

Ray observed Storm pulling back into the center, slowing down nonchalantly until the pickup was beside him. The exchange was quick, but it showed what an confident and attentive driver was capable of. Granted, the gesture itself was a simple occurrence, Ray hadn't remembered the last time he coached a fresh racer that knew the skills of proper road techniques and timing. An old school set of skills some modern cars could use a few lessons in, most Next-Gens for sure.

A moment of agreeable silence loomed. Lightyear tires revolving with a faint, humming engine were the only ambiance echoing the wider perimeter.

"Lightning's out of retirement," Jackson remarked, rotating himself in a slow, rolling turn.

Ray inspected the main hall, finding no cars in sight, "Found out recently?" He let Storm straighten his tires, grey eyes in miniscule curiosity. He was capable of being quite the personality when his guard was down.

"McQueen's going to be racing at the 500," Ray summarized, receiving a bleak, spiritless blink from Jackson.

"You've gotta be kidding," Storm commented, "he doesn't stand a chance."

Ray flexed his jaw, gazing to the evening yellow through the panels. He let his eyes wander some more with a grunt in agreement.

"Lightning doesn't roll that way, Storm," Ray noticed the subtle, grey glance his way. The racer was hearing him this time, "Challenges come as a boost. Race cars— the older ones, like him, they're used to working up the totem pole to success."

Storm kept his sights away from stray sunlight. Absently, he viewed an abstract ribbon sculpture fixed beside the wall opposite. The bronze colour sparkled, giving some breezy life to the wide space, "Like me."

Ray eyed Storm's semi-circle reverse, catching a glimpse of Jackson's natural equilibrium in expression. He cruised forward slow, headed to the gym. Jackson made up his mind, and Ray knew better than to poke him.

"Track's gotta be last this time," the vast environment and distance gave his voice reverb.

"Then we're doing the tunnel first." Ray closed the distance, approaching.

Jackson gave him a slow once over, "You're cutting out my sim time, again."

Ray was undeterred, "Virtual cars won't cut it. You know that."

Enough going for him was an understatement. Jackson had raced to glitz and glamour in the span of a year. His tires turned back on course, taking him into the high-tech P.E dome. Booked specifically for the champion alone, Ray knew Storm appreciated the privacy. Despite all his anti-social efforts and avoidance to team effort, Jackson had improved, in some ways.

He was already in the wind tunnel, grey eyes lucid and deferential. Storm didn't stretch his axles, he never had to. Speed and control came easy to him.

Ray pulled up to the module controls, and Storm glanced from the transparent tube, "Ready," his voice came through the panel system speakers, straightforward in nature.

The chief wasted little time. Ray engaged the winds to a gust force, the artificial rain would drench Storm soon. He squinted through the haze, little serpentines to straighten his cab through crosswinds. The remainder was undefeated past minor discomfort.

"Is that the best you can do?" Storm breathed, puffing droplets from his mouth. He powered on, now keen to keep his mouth shut during the water phase.

An inquired look grazed Ray's features, "Don't push it, Jack," he sped up the winds, and Storm doubled down, "this is just the start of conditioning."

* * *

There was a specific angle used to peek properly. Lean to the side, just slightly. Don't park, treat it like a red light. Being a Silverado hardly made it simple, nor lend any favour to the rugged pride. The activity was far from noble, however, fateful circumstances lead to it. Now, he wasn't sure if it was guilt or fear that brought him crawling to her whereabouts, but a swift punch to Tony's ego was enough to send the truck into submission. Once, he had leverage, unfortunately, it was faltered to a weak string now. Melise wasn't even hard to find, especially when she was the gossip around. Apparently, she was alone with Jackson Storm.

That was old news.

Cuddling at the waterfront with him? Not so much.

The guys would've loved to profit from it, had they taken the pictures. Unfortunately, the gossip press got a hold of it, and pulled Storm right into the limelight. He was well received already, although now, he had an attitude to match. Truthfully, Tony painted it as a ploy. Storm didn't really need commoners to rise to fame, his engine did it alone. That was no 'calm and kind' vibe he had with Rūūnes, those two were more than quick pics on the prowl. She wasn't seeing him for nothing.

The convertible parked diagonal from the slight-opened doorway. Her rear concealed a concoction she was fender-deep in. Her treads worked about blue and white plumes. Every shift of her cab sent stray feathers loose around an elaborate bonnet. The cloth was festive and tropical in nature. Random too. Patiently, she hummed alongside another noise, a guide playing through her radio.

"Be sure to keep your cabin posture tight while cruising," the voice over continued, "Models don't smile, only pout."

Melise rolled her eyes slow, visibly piqued by the shrill, valley girl tone. Reluctantly, she resumed listening. She focused all her interest into the craft of garment in front of her. Tony moved from her line of sight, despite the door being plenty of obstruction. After a moment, he peered through the cracked open door again.

Abruptly, the pickup checked his mirrors. No one was around. Inside, not a trace of spent money. Melise had returned to her merits, cleaned up and keeping to herself as usual. Grace came easy to her.

The oil cars were miserable, so the outcome to their gamble was obvious. Painfully surprising too. Figuring better fared luck, Tony took the time to avoid her at all costs, at least he still had his share, despite being the new outlier. The thought of the other guys jolted his RPM's… turned his oil pressure to red hot rage.

Tony took another glimpsed inside. Guilt on his end wasn't helping either, these new mixed up emotions.

Months ago, Tony branded her as a prim hermit. She stuck out on the team like a glowing antenna ball. Not that the guys minded a girl's presence as long as they were close to Piston Cup celebrities, but she wasn't hard on the eyes either. Her cab had curves, sloped in the right places. She was sporty, but prude in nature, abnormal for a divisive car. Although, on the contrary, down to Earth. Those irises were like diamonds, innocence to a youthful touch to complete her Igari-like appearance.

Tony could hear her pacing 'round off his line of sight. Either stretching her numbed still axles, or following instructions for that new job she was up to. Truth be told, the pickup was surprised Melise went up instead of down the totem pole. Then again, her little 'date' with the Champion opened doors for the most mute of cars.

More silence. Tony flexed his mirrors, checking the scene one more time for that fraught feeling. He heard the engine first, then the blaze of gold, low-riding, uppity cut sharply around him. The car was in front on him, glowering as stiff as his enhanced features would crease. Based on the model alone, he was one of those Bentleys. Luxury cars that would wax their own tailpipe's shiny.

"Another one!? Do you not know where the exit is!?" Jonah glanced between the door and Silverado.

The pickup's upper lip curled in defiance, "Who are you talking to, pal?"

Jonah's scowl grew, "And you're mouthy, just like the sludge junky lineage you came from. I don't need perverts spying on my protégée."

 _'Sludge Junky_ '? Tony had no idea what it meant, although it still pissed him off. This low-riding, glitter-ridden bumper had just wandered in, yapping insults. He needed to be crushed.

"Get outta my grille!" Tony accelerated, pushing the sport's car with little effort. Jonah grunted on contact, and his tires began to spin in reverse. Rubber stained the tiles.

In the heat of the moment, a brown, shimmery Jaguar appeared from the room opposite. Her powdered face was horrified, "Omigosh! Babe— Jo-nah! Get off him!"

The Bentley reversed, his hood dented once again. He exchanged a hateful glance with the pickup. His eyes glared to the right of the Silverado, finding the familiar convertible. With most of her cab inside, her front tire length peered out, bewilderment on her face as she exchanged glances with the two.

"Should've backed off." Tony grunted, ready to charge once more. This was just a warm-up.

Jin narrowed her naturally arched features, "You're a psycho!"

Tony glanced to the car beside him. His expression cooled down seeing the convertible, "Rūūnes… "

Jonah lunged, his engine hissed, "As for you!" his tire pointed at Melise, "I've already talked to Edison— I'm done helping you!" Briefly, the Bentley grimaced, touching his grille hesitantly, "By a dozen, the most disastrous amateur to fashion I have ever had the unfortunate experience of working with! It's over, you're done! Continue hanging out with these grotty cars, they're just as talentless as you are!"

Jin rolled forward, following Jonah's exiting U-turn. Abruptly, the Jaguar flickered her mirrors, "Groupie."

Gauging the reaction, Tony glanced to the convertible. Her expression remained inhibited as they left. Most of what the Bentley said was a haze now, but calling her a 'groupie'? What was that all about…

"I remember you," Melise looked the pickup over, voice monotone, "Go away."

"Wait!"

Melise winced at the volume of his tone, "You're the last vehicle I want to see."

She accelerated and the door closed on its own, automatically locking. Tony followed reluctantly.

"Wait! Where are you going!?"

"Go away… " she murmured, heading for the descending ramp.

"Please! Rūūnes, listen for a minute!" the pickup swerved around stray cars in the lobby.

When Melise reached the main road outside, Tony picked up speed, just making it past an amber light. Her mirror's caught sight of him, and she became worried.

"Just stop driving and listen!" Tony shouted. He watched her merge to the right, turning down a well-lit street. His engine hummed as he pulled in after her, braking quickly as she caught him off guard. Melise idled in the opposite lane, soon reversing into the lot neighbouring. Under streetlights, her sullen expression was pronounced. Her glare returned as she narrowed her lids in his xenon low-beams, ready to deny conversation.

The pickup exhaled. He opened his mouth, eyelid twitching, "They fired me!"

Melise looked up from her mirrors, brake lights reflected off the bar windows behind. Her lips parted slow in astonishment. The pickup huffed, breathing shaky. His suspension creaked as his cab jittered. Tony down casted his hood, "they fired me…"

Across, she blinked, lids raised.

"I don't know why… " he exhaled wobbly, "They won't tell me what I did— I don't know! What… if… "

Passing vehicles glanced the pair sideways, the strident vocals catching their attention. Melise just stared at the hysterical Silverado. He wasn't himself, yet somewhere in the dark, depths of her mind, they were both even. Was he crying? Stressed out? Embarrassed and distraught?

Karma, perhaps. She'd never wish harm on anyone, although some cars needed a kick in the bumper to straighten them out. For a moment, Melise thought of the right words to say. No more spite, he was a sloppy mess, buried behind his treads. Aggressively, Tony wiped the tears from his headlights. If the convertible had any imprudence for his weedy meltdown, she didn't show it. Instead, her engine hummed in reverse, and she slipped into an empty lot. Eventually, her soft eyes looked up, silently beckoning the miserable pickup to share her company.

"I was trying! You know it's l-like to be hounded every minute?" his breathing was labored, tires rolling in neutral gear.

Tony exhaled, catching his breath, "Dammit, it was so easy just filling up oil cans— moving them around!"

Melise kept her lips closed, eyes attentive.

"I didn't do anything! I… did my job!"

The Honda's effortless expression remained, "He must've told you why."

Tony's lower lid twitched. He blinked twice, shaking his hood left and right, "No, he took Yarvis— do you remember him?" Melise nodded once.

"Everyone takes his side," Tony sneered, "Just because he looks like scientist. They're all crazy… judgemental, sneaky."

A soft hymn of acknowledgement escaped her lips. She looked at him for the answers, raising a knowing lid slightly. Patience was one of Melise's greatest virtues.

"Aren't they your friends?"

He blinked, trying to keep the 'sissy water' from staining his windshield. If Melise noticed the fresh frustrated tears rolling down his quarters, she didn't show it.

"Tony," he adjusted to the watery, orange haze under streetlights, "Why are you here? What does that have to do with me?" Her tone was ambient, straightforward, and free of hostility.

Nearby, country rock echoed. Tony took a curious glance to the bar diagonal. The flat screens played the same motion picture — a vivid red series of strobes. Yellow electric bolts followed. He'd never gotten around to putting Rust-Eze on Kessler's lug nuts. They had to be at least four years old with the rust caked on them. Oh yeah, his mouth, windows, mirrors and tires too.

There was more noise, horns of cheer and thumping tires. In the reflecting array of lights, Melise's smile was heartfelt as she enjoyed the scene. Somewhere in her novice understanding of the sport, she was probably a McQueen fan.

Tony watched her curled mouth subside, "I wanted you to help me." By now, the content was wiped clean with his request.

"So now you want my help?" Melise's words twisted in the flintiest tone. She shot him a look of contempt, "Weren't random pictures enough?"

Tony shifted. Briefly, he checked his mirrors for prying eyes. By this hour, the avenue traffic was sparse, so he was in the clear. He looked her over once. Brown eyes shot daggers at him, but if she would just listen…

"I'm sorry—"

"Wha…?" she raised her lids, genuine daze.

Tony shook the shame from his hood, "For selling pictures of you. For leaving all our stations for you to clean, and even making you decide— no, causing you to lose the job. Everything." Her nettles expression alleviated. Despite the selfless act, Melise's guard remained firm. She was no fool, not anymore. No more of that crap.

"So," she began, eyes up at the streetlights, "You were fired... and rightfully so…" Tony curled his lip in self-loathe then nodded. She murmured something on the last of the sentence he didn't quite catch. "And you want my help… " Melise glanced slowly his way, "what kind of help?"

The pickup sniffed absently, "I need you to take my place."

It was a straight request, a big one too. Tony avoided eye contact on cue, although the Honda gave him a reception he least expected. Her eyes widened just enough, lips parted slightly. He'd never got the honour of knowing Melise, but her expressions spoke volumes. Hardly dumbfounded, she was ecstatic? Astonished? Tony couldn't figure it out this time. Then again, the demands he came with did no justice.

"The race is in three days," she emphasized, extending a tire out.

"I know."

"I'm not an oil runner anymore."

"I know, I'm not one either," the pickup thought some more, "but maybe you could fix all of this—"

"I know the other guys are awful, but I'm serious when I say this, Tony, how would one extra car make a difference?"

Melise was good at those logistic conversations, Tony almost forgot those traits. That would be a huge plus too, she remembered all the small details the boss sprinkled over on day one. Her point made sense, yet she was still unaware of some things.

"They never hired somebody else," Tony clarified, "there was no replacement."

She blinked to half closed eyes, "Is there something wrong with the six others?"

"Five," Tony corrected, "One guy just stopped showing up. I think he went home."

There was some silence, traffic ambiance whistled in the distance. Beside, the bar's reverbing music was toned down, drowned out by chatter of attendees.

This is how he needed it, she was listening, thinking it through. That's what she was good at, calculating, reasoning without generalization. Although, Melise's bias could never be firm, she always held on to the information she could gather, logically piecing it together unless her timid prowl got the better of her. In front of him, the Honda was acumen, and only now, Tony was truly comforted by it. Where credit was due, he would have to give it. She actually understood what the numbers and percentages on the tanks meant— even the symbols. Nozzle lights, pressure meter, cubic volume, grade quality. Chrysler, the details stood out now more than ever. Melise left the coach her bedazzled Piston Cup calculator, and he didn't even bother giving it to his remaining shirk-ridden employees. Kessler thought she was preppy for bringing 'her own' calculator.

They were given calculators… Tony could remember where he left his before training, somewhere in that ratty Copper Canyon motel. Evidently, he wasn't the sole idiot.

"The contract ends in three days too, yes?"

Tony thought about it, "I think so, yeah."

"So then it would be work for one day," Melise narrowed down the schedule, voice stuffy, "one last day of oil running."

Tony lit up, "You could sneak into the stadium during the race."

She rolled from between the yellow parking spots, "At the Florida 500? That would probably be like trying to break into Area 51, implausible."

Tony shrugged his tires, "Then how? Say you work for RSN? Don't you need a badge for that?"

Melise slowly braked a comfortable distance from the truck, "Yours," she said suddenly, perking up on her suspension, "Your badge, do you have it?"

Tony's mouth opened slow as he stared at her blankly, "It's all I have. It's in the trash can in my room, but I can give it to you."

She nodded, breathing an affirming sigh. The pondering curl of her lips gave her a new outlook. Melise let her cab roll side to side gently. She listened absently to the muffled country tunes from the pub.

"Does that mean you're gonna help me?" Tony inquired innocently.

"If by help, you mean make your friends look worse at the job than they already are," she glanced to an advance green traffic light blocks away, "Or genuinely give the team a helping tire, then yes."

Tony was silent in his mind's reiterate of her words, but the Honda caught on quickly, "To both," Melise answered with a small smile, "only because I liked the job."

"Uh, thanks."

A change in the bar's casual yellow lighting was interrupted again. Blue aura drained the flat screens, and a computerized riff rumbled the speakers. Blue-ringed Lightyears and an electric engine to ignite. A transition of 2.0 glazed the screen from quarter panels of the well-known champion racer. An aerial view drift across blue sand in slow motion probably emphasized traction, control, endurance. The IGNTR: Original Adrenaline flavour canister was revealed behind static, slow blinking blue lights.

Tony came closer, ease ran through his circuits, "What's that whole Jackson Storm thing with you about anyway?" She glanced at him slowly, hood downcast. "If you don't mind me asking," he quickly added.

She sighed faintly, "… I don't really know, Tony." That was an honest answer, he just knew it, the surface of it anyhow.

"So, what are you doing now?"

"Another job I can't stand," Melise replied with a contrary curl at the corners of her mouth. Tony wasn't going to add to that one.

"If I could choose between modelling and oil running…" she began, smile fading. Several actualizing blinks were in her eyes, a bigger picture, "I—"

Melise accelerated around the pickup at twenty, "I just need to finish with a bang!" her voice was clear, grin wide.

The pickup stared puzzled. She was random at times, but as long as she agreed to take his place, he didn't hear the rest of it.

"What—"

Melise shook her treads in no matter. She had ideas, probably a long list of them. Nonetheless, she was ecstatic in an adventure, a challenge.

* * *

It wasn't a good day. In fact, his belonging were next to the driveway, ready for the garbage trucks to collect.

Edison could see the flattened rubber, slashed tires and bent rims. The expensive ESR ones. Those were his soaked by the late rainfall. She was still wearing hers when she came outside.

"Two-timer!" the Sentra hollered from the front door, "I knew you were cheating on me!"

She loved to slam doors, then buy high-grade fuel with his money. Hubcaps, makeup, decals and polish. If credit cards didn't have a limit, she would buy the whole country. She was also a hypocrite, she wasn't squeaky clean with those annual romantic affairs.

The Hummer was thankful she didn't come outside. The last thing an executive business car needed was a moocher breathing down his back. Scornfully, he peered over the tattered belonging.

Reyna would never do this.

At the office, the BMW skimmed over several emails from Jonah. As to be expected, he was fighting with his students.

" _ **She doesn't listen, has the talent of a Lemon. Her friends are violent too.**_

 _ **She wanted to sever the contract, so we did."**_

It was always about Jonah-Dawn. Reyna suggested Eddie get rid of him, find a better fashion manager. The Hummer saw the profits, the fun his clients could have travelling the country. He was too good in his own right. Jonah had a reputation too, something about being a sleaze-wagon. There were four other girls wrapped around his golden tires, doing him favours to move up a broken ladder.

He didn't like it when he couldn't control. He painted pictures that Eddie scrutinized for answers. Hardly, if ever, the Bentley cooperated truthfully. Eddie was a big guy, and had a big heart to match. He loathed fighting, and tried to convince the girls to look at the brighter side.

There wasn't really one when a gold, stuck-up man-child was around.

The aforementioned Hummer entered through the elevator. He breathed deeply as water dripped from his cab. Reyna glanced to the window.

Clouds. She forgot it was going to rain this evening.

Tugging along behind the CEO, an eager forklift dropped destroyed parcels next to his desk. The Hummer nodded in thanks sullenly, and he departed.

"Ed," Reyna called softly. The Hummer exhaled, relaxing on his treads, "I'm glad you stood up for yourself."

"So am I," he breathed, exhaling through his grille. He looked at the silver BMW across the wide space, "But I sure do feel like a teenager again. The week's compare has been up, at least that's something better today."

Reyna smirked, "Yes, sales are great, better than last year's. Do you know why?"

Edison stared at her, guessing the surprise. Reyna approached, lining herself snuggly to his side. She toyed with the laptop's tire calibrated cursor, maximizing the email page she sent him.

Two dimmed cars, one noticeably glowing with blue decals, strong angular features. Locked in an embrace with him, a sweetly satisfied convertible.

The Hummer looked at Reyna. He was curiously content, "Is that, Melise?"

Reyna drove around the desk, looking him head-on, "His fans know, who do you think the customers are?"

Edison scoffed wholeheartedly, "They can't all be his fans, but—"

"Her fans?" Reyna mused, "The sales are coming from somewhere."

"Good publicity," Edison remarked, "This is different," he glazed over the photo again. They were basking in each other, undisturbed and genuine, he knew that feeling too well himself.

"Didn't you tell her to stay away from the race car? It looks like staying near him is the greater value."

Edison smiled. It was a growing fact that Melise was — partly so, building sales. Her and IGNTR paired together made a formidable alliance. This was working out more than anticipated. More than likely, the convertible wasn't quite the redeeming one, Jackson Storm was. She complimented his reign, a good medium to that supposed narcissism Edison heard all about. CEO to CEO, Gearsley mentioned 'it would be handled'. Nature seemed to do the trick on its own.

"Are you worried about her, Eddie?"

The Hummer narrowed his lids in wonder, "I was, when she didn't have any influence on the matter."

* * *

Storm rolled past the guard truck. The SUV gave a quick side glance, watching the race car travel down the building driveway. Inside the venue, two other Next-Gens continued catering to a group of nearby admirers. A sea of new racers flooded much of the hall inside.

Jackson Storm was in, signing and chatting up the cars like it was a regular thing to be obliged to the world. He put on his façade of interest, paying attention to the cameras and staining fans with tread autographs when necessary.

Truth be told, the racer was enjoying himself, but he bored easily. Fans were a trunk-full, and based on the irate whenever the younger ones screamed, Storm wanted it to be all over sooner rather than later.

The security truck had to give it to him, he was the most honest one here.

Storm parked in the humid night haze by some empty lots in the area nearby. He reversed into the corner spot, that same half-open neutral look on his hood. He didn't have to say anything, his engine was off. The truck blocked the garage to outside with his own cab.

He wanted some alone time, no biggie.

Tires crunched in ambience over gravel. The noise was so faint, it may as well have been some stray palm leaves blowing by. The air smelled like rain. The water was nothing, but he couldn't afford to be in front of cameras soaking wet.

Fifteen more minutes. If it did rain, he'd cut this short, cut the venue appearance shorter.

"Mister Stooorrm," the voice was so squeaky, it sounded forced and extremely annoying, "Can you pleeeeease sign my hood?"

Jackson kept still, the noise was to his right, a reasonable distance away to ignore. After a moment, the racer opened his eyes, catching sight of the car adjacent.

He raised a lid at her, and she giggled, a sweetened smile decorated her front.

Storm relaxed some, giving her a once over.

"Long time no see," he stated, "you really want the hood signed?"

Melise shook her tires in dismissal, "No, thanks," she idled, "It seems like a weird place to sign, anyway. Don't you think?"

"Rear bumpers too," he replied. The racer glanced to the road amongst the trees behind him. His eyes bee-lined to her position in front of him. She twiddled some gravel around her tires drawing semi-circles in awkward silence. When Storm's engine ignited suddenly, he only pinned a brief gaze on her ruffled demeanour. Melise gathered herself, chewing her bottom lip and playing off her minimal startle as nothing more than a twitch.

"Are you leaving?"

"Chat and roll with me," Jackson replied, answer null. He lead the way out of the parking lot.

Once the duo were on the side road, travelling slow, the Floridian night became quieter, peaceful.

"Do you enjoy interrupting me all the time?" His lid raised, tone sarcastically serene.

He watched her look to the curb in thought. Melise turned her eyes his way, "Yes," she replied, expression blankly honest.

"Huh?"

She could feel his eyes on her, "Well, perhaps it's a two-lane street because you don't seem to be bothered by it." his grey eyes narrowed as he listened, the action nonchalant. After a moment of silence, she looked back to the empty street ahead.

Jackson didn't fuss on the elaborate statement, instead, he focussed on the route, intently pacific of the car beside him.

"I'm not," he commented, "You're different."

Melise smiled to herself, "I think I'm well aware of it," she beamed with soft confidence, "It seems like everyone else has to 'get wasted', bang random cars, and take pictures of the beach instead of actually dipping your tires in the water to have fun."

Storm chuckled lightly, "Wait, wait, what?"

"That's what they do," she inquired sheepishly, "I mean, it's all you really see, right?"

"What you mean is, you don't do those things?" Jackson cleared it up, the question genuine. Melise shook her hood.

A tire caressed her cheek and her voice fell faint, "How do you think I stay looking so youthful?" Jackson mouth remained half open as she turned her cab his way. The words fell out in such a matter of fact grace that he huffed a chortle. Melise grinned shyly.

The end of the road lead to a crescent. Shadowed by heavy palm leaves, an elaborate, blue undertone structure sat behind a gated parking lot. Melise glanced to Jackson driving ahead of her, pushing the stiff metal gate open. He drove inside, approaching what was quickly revealed to be his trailer. The hatch door lowered steadily, the surrounding lot glowed an electric blue to match his decals.

A sense of flight grazed her mind. Melise looked around the lot for the semi-truck, finding no drivers among the other trailers. When Jackson parked himself in front the ramp, uninterested of reversing inside, Melise calmed, letting her wheels roll cautiously towards him. The lot stretched the perimeter of the side road, hidden behind greenbrier and thick shrubs.

Storm's eyes never stopped observing her curious wonder of the area.

"You're not from around here?"

Melise's eyes fell from the ominous and large Sabal palms looming over them. She gazed at the racer, stumped by the sudden question for a moment before shaking her hood, "No, I never knew they got so big," his eyes followed the shadow above his trailer.

"I'm not from here, at all. Further north."

Jackson let her park beside him, unbent by how close her reverse line was to him. If it were a parking space, she'd have half of her wheels on the dividing line.

"Like, Washington?" he guessed, eyes narrowed. She hiccupped a gasp when she noticed the space— or lack there of, between the two.

Melise thought about it, somewhat reluctant, "Further north than that."

Jackson straightened his wheels, silently acknowledging her indirect answer. The two idled in comfortable silence. Breeze from the distant marina cooled the hot air, and traffic echoed on the horizon.

"Do you?" she exchanged a quick glance his way, then back to the lot in front, "Do you live that mainstream— you know, guzzling liquor sort of life?"

He exhaled, "Nah, doesn't work well if you want to be a winner."

She nodded with a quiet hum, "I'm glad you realize that… Jack…" he didn't react past a gaze at her.

" _Jack_ , huh?" Storm remarked fruity, "Finally getting comfortable, good."

Melise met his eyes, a sweetened smile turned to the ground, "I was nonsensically nerve-ridden before."

Jackson scoffed light, "Like right now, minus the nonsense part." she didn't budge, fenders honeyed with rose.

"Jackson," she stiffened looking to him, "What are we?"

His eyes examined her doe features with faint precision, "You've stuck around, before I started my winning streak, and after." she chewed her lip, she was a total ball of anxiety, played off with neat maturity.

"I think about you," he continued, confidence coming naturally, "I wouldn't have brought you over here if there wasn't something."

"More than winning a Piston Cup?" Melise inquired. Storm paused, eyes darting to her in a narrow decide.

"Don't even push it," he focussed, a lid raised and discerned, "I care, but I separate my priorities." She chuckled.

"So while I'm the fastest car in the world now, have you worked on being less of a pushover?"

Melise's cab tilted, "I'd say I have, I did win a bet race with the other oil runners."

" _A bet race?_ " Jackson deadpanned, " _An actual race_ , you won one?"

She widened her eyes for dramatic effect, voice breathy and rising an octave, "Yeahh…"

"Wow."

"Jackson…"

"I just wasn't expecting that outcome," he continued, thumping her side quite gently, "That's two things right there. Nice."

"And the prize was gnarly too."

"Hang on, did you just say, _'gnarly'_?" he lip curled in an awkward grin.

"Yes, I always use that word," Melise answered cheerfully.

"What'd you win?"

"All the money they scammed from me."

Jackson scoffed wholeheartedly, "You've always got something random going on." She shrugged her tires with a lopsided smile.

"It makes life more exciting," Melise looked at him, tone little, "Like being with you."

He gazed at her a moment longer, "'Cause it's me, what more can you expect?" He pulled her closer by the tread. She nuzzled into his side, breathing becoming wobbly after some minutes.

"You've gotta relax, Peaches," Jackson muttered.

"I am," she protested sheepishly. He drove forward several inches, reversing into a turn to face her.

"You have a lot of beauty, and you're not the type to prance it around," Storm scanned the area aimlessly, "Good traits, you know?"

Melise kept her sights on the blue hue by his tires. She had some seriously goofy confidence before, this time, she couldn't get her gear out of park. It hardly mattered, because Jackson was rolling closer. She shut her eyes, lips quivering as the seconds passed. The shadowy warmth was looming over her, her tone couldn't muster past a whisper.

"…Wait… " he didn't much, pulling away from her lips after some seconds just an inch. A minty, cool, inch.

Jackson exhaled a breathy tone, "What?"

Her mind changed quickly, and she rolled in, closing the space. This was a new feeling. Another good one.

Somewhere in the maze of kisses, Melise's nerves ceased. He nuzzled her front, trading extensive canoodles. Being an expert was irrelevant, these things came naturally.

When Melise felt a drizzle tap her roof, she reverse from Storm's grip. He came closer, kissing her fender and cuddling, "…What's up, now?"

Thunder rumbled a distance away, the air did smell of rain since evening.

Her breathing was shaky, eyes watered, "Nothing, I… just haven't ever done this before."

"I think you did fine," Jackson replied, coolly, his sonorous voice vibrated her cab, "Cut yourself some slack, Peaches."

Melise gathered herself, sniffling, "Now what do we do?"

"Well, we could continue some more," he ignored the drizzling precipitation, "I've got the time. Or, you could put your number into my phone, and be on your way until I schedule a date."

She stifled a sweet smile, reversing into his trailer, easily figuring out how to use the intercom. Tapping on the roof grew louder, and the livery race car blocked her ramp exit. It was a sudden rainstorm.

Melise back to the front of the trailer, its space wider than she assumed.

"Looks like you're camping here for tonight," Jackson watched the water pool in cracks outside the window. His tire pushed a knob on the left, closing the hatch door behind him.

Inside, the ceiling reflected a glowing aura around the edges. Two beeps followed the door's red lock light. Melise observed the contingency sponsor gadgets, a two-point-zero reflector on the front wall behind her. The shelves and cabinets were empty, nonetheless, a quad pack of the real IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline sat unopened to her back tire.

The blue light made her sleepy. She took a weary glance at Jackson in front of her, he stared in space at the ceiling, eyes moving aimlessly and slightly. The droplets blowing against the tinted windows made the forecast clear inside the nearly sound-proof shelter, "It's not gonna let up, so get comfy."

"I am, thank you," Melise consented warmly. Silent tranquility ensured.

"Your crew chief or trucker won't be upset?"

Storm stretched his axles, eyes casually half-closed, "My trailer, my choices."

For a moment, the convertible blinked at an ever decreasing rate, her hood flushed with rose, and she mumbled something he didn't quite catch. It was nice having her here. She was safe, comfortable, and the blue hue looked good on her. Her lids were heavy with fatigue, and dozing off in his trailer was a minimal concern. In fact, Storm didn't mind her company, she never tried to pretty herself up for an audience, just chill and collected. A breath of fresh air.

"Sweet dreams, Peaches."


	41. Mr Muddyflaps & Gritty Sunshine

"She's French, it's all in the name, " a modern, tanned Corolla, transfixed his sight on the yellow Sport's Coupe as she shimmied, high on her suspension, over the slippery mud. He was parked on the rickety grandstands just two feet above the guardrail, the promoter of the event called that spot the " _Best of the House_ ". You could see every corner of the Eight. Parked just below, on the sideline of the track, the gatekeeper and promoter himself, Roscoe, kept his eyes trained on the two new hitchhikers in the derby, neglecting to look at the Corolla— whom he had indirectly begun a conversation with.

"Said her name was, 'Frances', the other guy with the duckbill spoiler, 'Chester'. Besides, Frenchies don't compete in good ol' demolition derbies."

The cars, most twisted and rusted beyond repair, zested pass the outer gate, thrashing about mud and oil in their wake. The yellow, now gritty and miserable car in question, wailed alongside her stocky and atypical competitor. Both in last place.

Dilapidated and muddy, that was the scenery. The mood? Violently zealous.

Vehicles in the unkempt, wooden stands began thumping their tires rhythmically to the heavy metal speakers. Their yips filled the night with sadistic pleasure. These were the kind of cars to egg-on a fight to the death street brawl.

All eyes were set on the reigning champion, and probable former teacher, Fritter. The wretched school bus kept a dangerous tailgate on those two straggling sports cars. She grinned and hooted manically with enough room to chew off their bumpers. Rumors said Fritter feasted on competitors after sawing them to scrap metal. Based on her jagged, razor teeth and the wear down of that coppery, oil-stained, lacerating stop sign, Roscoe wouldn't need to inquire on it.

It was also good revenue to have her around, especially on Family Night. She scared the lugnuts off newbies, the crowd loved it.

This was the Crazy Eight. Roscoe had stellar experience of how vile and exciting the derby was. In fact, terrified and unusually conscripted vehicles made the perfect plot, or so the green Campster figured out over the years. Fans plucky enough to jump in the arena after a few pints of leaded and spiked 5W-30, were usually met with an early, permanent oil drain. Roscoe's job as gatekeeper and promoter easily kept him on the tips of his treads, so the Hollismobile expanded by making some extra side cash being a Thunder Hollow photographer as well. With two newbies in the arena tonight, he made sure to keep himself parked at the sideline closest to the track. The terror would be documented on each, respectively.

'Beltline', the yellow coupe, was cowering in the center of the track, hoping to remain undetected by the school bus. Not a good idea, terrified meat tasted better. Fortunately, Fritter's entourage settled their energy on 'Goldie's friend, the mud-bathed stocky sedan with that dang duckbill spoiler. He was quick and agile, but Roscoe was more interested in why they came at all. Cars like them didn't fit in a place like this.

Chester was in the center, giving Beltline a clumsy push. She was stuck in the mud flailing her sticky tires about and mumbling something. She was a boring treat for Fritter, and the bus would gladly scavenge. Roscoe had heard her mention that scared metal tasted better.

The banner dropped, and the school bus began her joyride. It was _FRITTER TIME_!

But Roscoe knew Miss Fritter was also an idiot.

The bus drifted her turn dreadfully, and lost her traction, ban-saw disappearing somewhere in Chester's rear end. A gutteral laugh escaped the Campster's mouth as he watched the spectacle. Fritter was left on her side, mud bathing like the big heifer she was.

"Don't even touch him," the bus struggled, " _he is mine!_ " watching the gold coupe— her meal, make an escape. Beltline hobbled around the dilapidated track, slipping and yelping on her all-season tires each inch of the way.

"Hey! You're gonna ditch your friend behind like that!?"

The yellow car ignored fans garbling taunts through the fence. Her face fixed in blank, cationic horror watching the school bus regain her traction with a heavy boom right-side up. Mud splashed about, sending globs to splatter on Chester's roof. He struggled to accelerate with that damn mangled stop sign caught between his rear tire and mud flap. Fresh wet dirt did zero wonders to helping it pry loose.

Roscoe let his interest in the forth-coming gruesome scene falter. That wasn't no abstract beige this Chester Whipplefilter fellow sported. Nah, paint had a reflect to it, even under dirty street lights…

Fritter erupted with fire, her hefty tires ripped apart a trail to the muddy fool in the center of the Eight.

Those heavy, slick tires on him weren't going to fool Roscoe either. duck bill spoiler, burly axles. Chester looked like a damn race car. What were the chances Fritter would get to eat a race car tonight? She got herself a delicacy for dinner.

Except he swerved from her sights, toppling a tower of outworn tires and tubes. Miss Fritter mumbled a sentence of curses as her beast-like proportions went airborne. Despite his distance in the opposite direction, Roscoe felt himself shrink. No one wants to be on the receiving end of a soaring, ugly bus. Thankfully, it was a tattered billboard she crossed, jamming her in its confines.

Collective gasps ensued, and Roscoe shared the awestruck sentiment with the muddy stock car in center. He continued to race to nowehere after the stupor subsided, opting to swim through the terrain awkwardly.

Roscoe didn't like where this was going, and Drippy with his desires to race across the Eight to help the stranded bus made the events all too ridiculous. Beltline was still skidding across the erosion just as the water truck reached the center, she was the last car standing. She managed to avoid the big lug, and he too, toppled over like the idiot he was.

The bloated tank on his back groaned, bursting over Whipplefilter like a broken water main. He flinched under the cold shower, gargling incoherence as his ugly mud-job washed away. The crowd gradually fell silent, and some peered more closely as the red _''15"_ melted clean off his side.

A Sisley sedan parked closest to Roscoe was murmuring something, "Is that… Lightning McQueen?"

Roscoe hadn't a clue who he was talking about when the audience erupted. Chester was now a shiny crimson, creeping to maroon with the dull dirt polish. A big, golden bolt ran along his flanks to his mid-section, and a new number with it. Definitely a race car, and based on the uproar, a well-known one too.

His blue eyes darted side to side in embarrassment as he realized his cover was blown. Two forklifts hoisted a backdrop, _GOT MY TIRES DIRTY AT THUNDER HOLLOW_. The race car stared in frozen stupor ahead of flashing photography. That wasn't a part of his plan, clearly.

"Roscoe, take one for Chick's Picks!"

The Campster exchanged a glance with the race car, still squinting in the haze of meddling fans. McQueen? That's what they called him, right? So his name wasn't Chester Whipplefilter? The racer didn't seem to hear the commands taking place inches from him. The forklift beckoned Roscoe again, waving his arm in encouragement.

Roscoe adjusted his antenna, the digital red light prepared, "Say.. CHEVRON!"

The photo was a messy, but spectacular look for McQueen, but Roscoe hadn't a clue of what Chick's Picks was either. It sounded like an article for a _CARgirl_ magazine, but if sending a picture or two to this network meant money in his trunk, he'd gladly oblige.

This was a great night for the Crazy Eight. Hey, no one even died, and the crowd was still thrilled out of their mind. Maybe McQueen would bank in from this too


	42. No Hurry

_**author's note:**_ thank you for continuing to tune in, I've been well, busy, but well. I hope you are doing great, please review, tell me what you think!

warning! lots of fluff in this chapter!

* * *

Waves of cobalt blue set the scene, keeping moods tuned to each car in the trailer, respectively. For Storm's persona, the atmosphere was benumbed. He needed it, or so Melise could tell. She was observant, and the fast lane attention wasn't a desire he had— at least, since his A-level status in the racing world took hold. Jackson liked things quiet.

Another miniscule peek his way revealed more she could piece together about the mysterious racer's personality. To some, his grey glance was astute, nothing else. His eyes were closed now, either resting or relaxing, she couldn't really tell. It was when Melise felt the frigid air conditioning through the trailer, with cold shivers that kept her waking up with a freeze, that she could guess he was likely just relaxing in silence. She sucked in a breath and released a soft and quiet burr in discomfort. His eyes opened briefly, and then he closed them, minding his own business once more.

The trailer was freezing. Also dynamic and interesting, yet the chill kept Melise from exploring with her eyes, falling tired with the air. She could do nothing but sleep at the end of this wild day. Nonetheless, her better judgement in a new place kept her aware with a dwindling alertness.

That was one of the differences between him and her— where Jackson's aesthetic kept him jaded and grounded, it made her weary and dreamy. A peaceful chi they could share.

Melise opened her eyes only a smidge, finding the sweet snooze had given way to a drowsy drunkenness. She could shake off the cold later, and outside was likely hot and humid anyway.

Rain drops tapping on the roof was pleasant. Things remained blurred under the misty lighting, and her eyes found themselves trailing from the ceiling down to him, still parked in front of the exit. Jackson was blear mass of grey and glowing azure. She was so tired and satisfied, it was long yearned for. This was a good kind of groggy, but a new environment proved little in keeping her nerves down, especially when he was right there.

A deep exhale from him, clearly on purpose, caught her attention. He shifted his cab slightly to his right, leaning on his dominant tire. He didn't move again, nor did his eyes open, still she could "feel" him keeping an eye on her.

Melise sunk into the carpet, tires sprawled. Despite the uncomfortable chill conditioning the air, she found her eyes half open, and a sweetened once over of Jackson to pass her time. He was mostly still, but slight, natural movement— rocking his tire in very subtle, slow left to right turns, kept him from looking like a stoic masterpiece. His mouth, she felt a warm chill wash over… There was an emotionless arch, he was handsome-ly put together. Sometimes, his mouth was pursed, but only for a moment, then he let it fall back to his usual, mature indifference.

"Do you want the trailer warmed up?" his sonorous voice vibrated her world. Melise bit her bottom lip, listening to the unmoved car in front. Jackson's voice had an enchantment on her as of lately.

"Why is it so frigid in here anyhow?"

He took a moment to exhale deeply as he opened his eyes, "Keeps me relaxed. I gotta chill someway." A light stretch of his axles followed.

Melise drowned in his voice, he was so down to earth now. If only Emla could see this… if only everyone.

"I guess you don't like the temperature, you twitch in your sleep," Jackson observed the rosy embarrassment suddenly etch her features.

She tittered a nervous laugh, waving her tires in dismissal, "I don't twitch!"

Jackson gave her a softened quizzical look, "Yeah, only when you're sleeping."

Melise chewed her bottom lip, looking away coyly, "Well, it's cold in here."

Storm turned his tires, resting his weight on one side. Continuous tapping of rain water on the roof gave Melise a serene reason to sigh. There was nothing that could interrupt them.

"We've still got time," Jackson replied coolly, "Did we ever have that talk? You know, the one we were supposed to have after my venue?"

Melise blinked and sighed, "You mean after your gala party? The one where I was dressed like…" she muffled her mouth with a tire as recalling the encounter and it's silly nature brought amusement. Jackson's half-closed eyes became somewhat pleased listening to Melise's sweet laughter. Good thing she considered that confrontation a fond memory now.

"Yeah, when you stuffed your mouth full of candies and tried to one-up me," he met her eyes with easy confidence, "All while wearing a Halloween costume." Jackson's expression, once laced with banter, became stoic, "Listen, sorry about that— you know, the fight we had. Not good for our image."

Melise slowly removed her tire from her mouth, astonished, "Oh, well, I'm also sorry, for causing a scene, showing up uninvited, and…" she sucked in her bottom lip, looking elsewhere as she thought of more unrelated insecurities.

"You didn't cause a scene, Peaches, rest assured. But thanks for being on good terms," Jackson remarked. Melise gave a single nod.

Briefly, she drew imaginary shapes into the thin, trailer carpet, listening to the silence ensuing. He could tell she was thinking. "Jack, you mentioned, _'our image'_ ," the Honda looked him in the eyes, "What do you mean?"

Storm studied her, grey eyes moving slowly around her hood, "A few things. You and your photo gigs, you're representing IGNTR with that, so welcome to the team. Fighting is bad press or whatever they call it. And then there's _this_ ," he looked her up and down, "We've got something going on here."

Melise noted his wording, "we aren't friends much, are we?" she recalled their romantic escapades before.

"Friends don't kiss each other," Storm stated the obvious. Melise rubbed her lips together, some nervousness creeping in, "What do you think about, us?" she asked.

Jackson exhaled. He looked at a spectrum of indigo light fading and reappearing on the ceiling above Melise. The transition of _'IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline'_ changed to _'2.0'_ and looped.

"Not sure how you see it, but I think you'd be better off on the sidelines. Leave all this fast lane stuff behind."

Melise's hood crinkled in confusion, "You want me to give up?"

Storm's calm face didn't falter, "You and I both know you look better without mods or fakeup."

"I can make up my own style or image, or something! Nothing great _ever_ came easy! I _can_ do it! I know if I try hard enough!" the convertible protested. Jackson was quiet, he looked her over with poise, "So you finally decided to change, huh?"

Her demeanor softened, "What?"

"Finally blossoming… " his tires rolled towards her, and she blinked, soon feeling the softened, malleable metal of his cheek against hers. The trailer hadn't much space for two mature sized vehicles that wanted to be closer to one another, but his presence alone was enough of a prize for Melise. She cuddled closer, inhaling the fresh scent of his premium wash. She could forget about the chill like this, especially when it was slowly getting easier to be unnerved around him.

"You know…" Melise whispered, "you never answered my question."

"We're still talking about this?"

He felt her nod. Jackson sighed.

"Do you want to know what I think?" she mused quietly, "I think you want the success of the fast lane," she snuggled closer, softening her already soft voice, "but you want a girl in the slow lane."

Melise felt him exhale deeply, as if he was depressurizing. She was no fool when it came reading emotes. Jackson would likely never speak his aloud, but his ideals were clear.

She wouldn't pester him further, they both ought to be asleep by now. But Melise was a night owl, and this kind of peace in mind was going to be a good memory one day. She listened to the rain some more, briefly seeing shadows of palm trees grazing the windows. Sabal leaves rolled past small rivers in the cracks of asphalt, strung about in the windy downpour. Florida was subtropical, and these rainstorms were beautiful… at least to an outsider.

Jackson didn't care, he ignored it, was used to it, maybe…

"Does it rain like this in Los Angeles?"

He opened his eyes lazily, looking outside, "Huh?" Storm exhaled, "Uh, yeah… "

Melise held back a sweetened smirk as he closed his eyes again, falling into her fender. She softened her tone some more, noting his fatigue.

"Now you're sleepy? If you wanted to cuddle, you could've told me, Jack." she snuggled closer, and he murmured something she didn't have to understand. A champion needed his sleep, and so did she.

* * *

Cicadas buzzed their natural morning hymns, and a breeze rustled hibiscus bushes, casting a branch of shadows in the trailer. Melise was awake by now, and the woozy, drunkenness returned. She was ecstatic, heavily content.

Jackson felt her stir against his fender. Her cheek caressed his sharp angles next to his headlight, and she settled with a small, sleepy moan.

He'd been awake for the last half-hour, assessing his daily goals since Ray hadn't much gall in contacting him. The crew chief had stuff to do, setting the team's schedule and ordering in slicks for the 500. Jackson just needed to make it all count— simple.

That could wait another hour…

"Morning," his voice came in satisfaction. In some part of his mind, he wondered what he was doing with this convertible in his space. Months ago he would've never indulged in this sappy stuff, and the very thought of it would bore him, make him tired.

But she was right here, as close as no one was allowed to get, and she was soft too, like a pillow.

Melise didn't answer, yet stirred some more. Her tires rolled an inch, and she brushed her full lips on his, indulging further with a longing for kiss. She felt him exhale sharply, he was definitely caught off guard.

"Good morning," she sounded and tasted like sweet honey. The sunlight shining through the windows gave her rosy paint a sparkle, eyes glossy and amber. Jackson couldn't forget why he kept her around after that natural display. Yeah, those magazines and pictures didn't show the real essence she had.

Storm flexed his tires, the weight of the rubber displaced Melise, and she snuggled closer, "Are you trying to impress me?" he exhaled in relaxation.

"Is it working?" she asked coyly, looking out the window at the new sunshine, a contrast of last night's weather.

Jackson scoffed lightly, keeping his voice low, "I don't play mind games, so I think it's clear."

"You know," Melise kept her eyes peeled on the tropical atmosphere outside, "the sunlight makes this all feel like it's a dream."

Jackson blinked. The harsh gold rays of sun seeped into the trailer window. In the dead of the night, Gale must've hooked herself up and moved, because his trailer was parked in a garage. The building was a neat white, bricks and gardens. This was the IGNTR headquarters, and the realization of moving in the night without noticing was somewhat unsettling. Gale likely paid no notice to the extra car in the trailer, because Jackson wouldn't let anyone open the door on him without knocking first. His privacy was firmly stated in his contract.

He turned his attention back to the convertible— his VIP guest. She was glowing— literally. Her eyes began moving aimlessly as she surveyed the world outside the trailer with true wonder, obviously ready to leave. That thing she did, where she genuinely enjoyed life despite all the harsh things it threw at her. How rare were vehicles like that from this generation? Everyone wanted to be sad all the time, they were all boring. She wasn't even annoying about it— idealistic? Yeah, that seemed to describe her right. He needed some of that around— a medium to Ray's helicopter parenting and Gale's relaxed persona.

"It doesn't get hot and sunny where you're from?" Jackson was used to this heat, he wouldn't exchange his high performance tires for snow tires. Besides, snow would hug his los undercarriage, the though grossed him out.

"Of course it gets hot, but never really this sunny! all the puddles are already dried up." Melise looked at him, "I'm not from the North Pole, Jack."

The way she always breathed out his name with that soft voice of hers was unique to her, and her only.

"Will I get in trouble when I leave this place— where are we?" Melise peered at two tugs passing by, their signature black and cobalt uniforms brought curiosity out of her.

"At HQ," Jackson hit the release button, and the hatch lowered, allowing a glare of light across the ocean view to dance across his sleek paintjob. He reverse down the ramp slowly, turning and driving to the left of the trailer. Briefly, the mix of gold, black paint and humid haze over the ocean backdrop created a picture too perfect, too nostalgic. Jackson's place in the center briefly made the image look like a first class travel guide brochure.

Catching up with him, the Honda felt refreshed, her tank was low on nutrients, but she could get herself a pint of Valvoline a little later. She caught up to the racer— her racer. He waited while she lined up on his right side, closest to the trailer and slightly timid to be out in the open. The building was extra high tech. In fact, the sun light on an elaborate statue at the front shaped a hurricane, trimmed with indigo outlines that glowed. Melise recognized that symbol all too well. The walls were white brick, reflections of the world kept eyes out as windows were akin to giant mirrors. Something of architecture and physics twined as one, the structure extended into the earth, and down the rocky hillside. It reminded her of those unaffordable penthouses.

"Nice, huh?"

Jackson always did the rhetorical question thing, never caring for the answer the other car had to give. However, his tone was neutral and calm this time. Melise wasn't sure if he was expecting an answer.

"I suppose. The view is amazing though."

Jackson pressed his brakes, glancing to her, "Listen, tell me you're free tomorrow morning, I've got some places to show you."

Melise gathered her thoughts. She had business with Tony, and that ridiculous contraption of feathers and jewels to finish in her suite. In fact, she had to meet the pickup truck at her suite later today.

"I'll be free then," Melise smiled.

Jackson's usual and luxuriate expression took in her appealing features, "Good, I'll give you a call, set it all up."

"Do you want an escort out of here, or not?" Storm asked, pulling a U-turn to face her. Melise shook her hood, "No, I'll be fine, I'll just need my GPS."

Storm watched her, affirming the response. He checked her out as Melise's tires carried her away slowly. The main road was ahead, behind an arm gate and security booth. She definitely felt VIP here, it was a secure lot.

She and Jackson exchanged stares, but the racer was unmoving, his confidence was never wavered. Once again, they were separating, and this time was weirder than the last. Somewhere inside her wild imagination, Melise wished she hadn't spoiled herself so much, but there was still more to learn with him. She still wasn't sure where they stood, and part of that realization, coupled with the vulnerability of being so close to him, made her circuits run cold.

No, Jackson wasn't like that, that's what Emla wanted her to believe. Melise knew better, she knew him, and would repeat her defence again to reaffirm any silly insecurities.

"Drive safe," he remarked as she passed him. Her eyes twinkled and she smiled. The racer raised a lid with a signature very subtle, half-smile. Something about him said he was rooting for her— he knew she had endeavors too, and it warmed her heart.

Headed towards the gate, Melise peered in her mirrors, watching Jackson firmly idling still as she spoke to the agent. The matte black GT looked her over with a relaxed face, "License," he summarized quickly. Melise drove up where he could see her rear plate, "Stamp this pass with, and you're free to go."

The arm ascended slowly, and she caught sight of Jackson Storm's slow exit into the mirror-like facility.

What time did Tony insist on meeting? She couldn't remember, but her tasks at tire were clear. These next few days would go down in history, and Melise was ready to make it happen.


	43. Bail

_**author's note:** it's been a while, but I'm still here! I was busy and playing around with new ideas for this fic and character development. I still love hearing from you guys! It's been 2 whole years and still going strong! Still a major Jackson Storm fan too!_

This chapter is rated T due to language.

* * *

Grid had to agree with Yarvis, Tony was a temperamental stereotype. It made him _'feel some type of way'_ to antagonize Tony, but the latter was a big fool, ready to burst if he wasn't getting his way. Grid let the friendship last, using the momentary gain when pictures were bringing them steady cash. On the side, Tony was getting annoying. He was too into outdoing the others, and arrogant about his loathe for Rūūnes. Put it simply, he tried too hard to fit in.

Once, he convinced Preston that she only went after fast cars, that she was just another "one", whatever that meant.

The jokes were funny when they were told in nonchalance, then Tony would repeat them— he tried too hard. Yarvis was the only one ready to tell him to shut up, brewing a newfound respect for the sedan Grid didn't believe possible. Since then, Yarvis was a buddy, probably better than Preston or Kessler.

The Silverado was just another guy when the end of the day came, yet Grid's better judgement hung onto those late night pranks they joyed over on Yarvis. They were a damn good duo, while it lasted, but Grid needed to keep his paint clean if he wanted that chance to see Danny Swervez racing up close. The grey coupe would cut loose anything if it meant a roadblock ahead. Moral of the story, always watch your blind spot, and Grid would watch his back keenly. Himself first.

Preston slurped hungrily on unleaded fuel, minding no manners as Grid gave him a slow sideways glance. The guy was out of luck like the rest of them, undertrained for tomorrow, so to speak. Nothing else mattered when they were screwed, so the boys ignored the noisy suction in the dead silence of their room.

Yarvis tinkered with a tablet, swiping away on an app to keep himself busy as they chilled. The cars made the effort to study some more, reading the instructions intensely up until about an hour ago. The methods of an oil runner were truly boring, but Preston would be damned if he didn't get the chance to see McQueen racing from a perfect parking spot. Grid felt the same, hopeful with his bet on Swervez, or Swift making a comeback. Kessler was a follower, and he liked the money, so it didn't matter for him. Yarvis wanted to ruin Tony as much as the next oil car, so he had a mission.

Grid settled down low on his chassis, finding the cool tile surface surprisingly relaxing. He hadn't expected to agree with the prior group loser, Yarvis. Subsequently, the sedan was an intelligent kind of ruthless. In some ways, he was just like the rest of them. The difference was that he had a plan to go with it. He saved their rear ends when he got the runners a scapegoat. The big miserable boss would've had them fired in no time.

Tony wanted to fight, Yarvis wanted to talk plain shit. Grid could watch from the sidelines, he wasn't in hot water if he wasn't involved, and watching was amusing.

Yarvis exchanged a glance with Kessler. The fellow coworker had just entered the premises closing the door behind him with a kick of his back tire. He noted the frowns on his friends' hoods and didn't bother saying anything, they looked exhausted.

Even Preston was miserable. His 'Lucky 95' garb hadn't brought him a brighter day the past week. Considering he was the team puppy, it made the situation all the more depressing.

"Saw Tony in the parking lot," Kessler finally stated, monotone. Yarvis took some interest in the statement, following the sedan's movement with his eyes as he settled near their bed mats.

"Guess he forgot he was fired," Yarvis glanced to the door, unnerved. Hearing an engine approaching, the sedan's RPM kicked up and his eyes narrowed, "Did he follow you? If he comes in here," the Toyota glanced among the group, "I'm serious, it's going down."

Grid peered at the Yaris, keeping his relaxed deposition, "He's got nothing better to do, what'd you expect?"

A second glance at the sedan revealed a face of rage. He shot into drive and

revved his composite engine, bolting for the opening door. It took seconds, and Grid was immediately taken aback. He hadn't realized the door was even opening in the first place.

Squeals of rubber burned oxygen out of the air. The door fought and swung between the two boys. A navy blue hood popped inside several time with each groan. Tony had found them, and he wasn't here to talk.

"Because of you guys I got fired!" Tony broke through, slamming head on into the Toyota. The two we evenly matched as they drilled into one another "You told 'im, arrgh!"

Grid blinked angrily through the smoke, " _YOU GOT YOURSELF FIRED_ , YOU SACK OF—" Tony shoved a large tire at the grey coupe, tearing his front bumper at the side. Grid shoved himself at the Silverado, full force. It was two against one as Preston and Kessler looked on, the latter hooting in amusement.

"IT'S A FIGHT NIGHT, DING, DING! ROUND TWO!"

Grid caught the pickup with an acceleration, kicking Tony's tires onto his hood. The weight was too much as his grey metal dented. He grimaced angrily, tires caught fumbling and bumping into Yarvis' separate struggle beside him.

Tony's engine grumbled when he accelerated forward, nearly tipping the Yaris on his side. A swift swing of the sedan's tire cracked Tony's windshield, and the Silverado winced, shoving him off to bury his face in his treads. The truck heaved as his eyes flushed red.

Grid backed off, feeling an odd detachment at his side. His entire mirror swung loose at the corner, scratching his paint. The coupe instantly lashed out.

"YOU BROKE MY GODDAMN MIRROR!"

Preston's hood remained horrified as the battle only got worse. Kessler's frown appeared soon after, watching the violent encounter take place.

Pickup trucks always had the advantage, Tony was no exception: big, stupid and aggressive. Grid launched an acceleration at the truck, a final bit to seize the victory.

However, Tony had the same idea.

Yarvis squinted in the burning black soot. His tire was instantly flattened in proximity as the pickup slammed the wall. An eerie crackle of multiple parts resounded.

Kessler looked terrified as he saw the grey rear end bending up the wall. The position was an awkward, grotesque twist. A gruesome right angle mess of Grid's body.

"CHILL OUT!" Kessler waved his tires in defense, seeing the truck creeping in reverse absent minded, "CHILL!"

Tony reversed quick, letting the weight of his former friend crash to the floor. The pickup assessed the close distance of the wall, roughly six feet of collision space he had closed. Grid was crushed in the middle, and he wasn't moving.

Preston shuddered, gagging as he inhaled the sickening scent of leaking lubricants and corrosion. He made his exit, finding a scream caught hoarse in his throat as he evaded the premises. Tony winced at the deafening screeches of the sedan down the halls.

Yarvis remained dazed, fear shook his cab, and he could not shift himself out of park. He hadn't wanted thing to end like this.

"Tony! _What the fuck'd you do_!?" Kessler went around the equally stunned Silverado, "GRID!? WAKE UP!"

The sports car was mangled, his hood was concaved to his windshield, mouth teared at the edges. His teeth, what was visible— stained in a reddened orange mixture. The worst of it was through the rear end. Grid's cab had bent violently at the midsection, forcing its way up the wall to compensate the lack of open space behind him. The window and wall, they were damaged too. He went right through, leaving a deflated tire, still attached to his body, embedded in the structure.

Silence on the scene was an eerie mixture of panicked murmurs from Kessler as he held his unconscious friend close, shaking his tire for signs of life. All the while, Yarvis, aggressive only moments ago, panted in strained breaths, unsure if his cause was a broken air filter or plain terror.

Voices soon emerged from neighbouring rooms. Their concerned sentences and questions to the boys were hushed by a stream of emotions Tony didn't know he had. Thinking and reasoning were nonexistent right now. It built intense light-headiness, and Kessler or Yarvis must've been shaking him, because the pickup found his vision blurry, his tank churned, begging him to vomit.

Tony took thing too far, too goddamn far. He belonged in a cage.

The Silverado felt the comforting tire of vehicle behind. It's touch was too delicate, too reminiscent of a soft-top car he had poured all his trust into. He didn't check his mirrors, yet quickly turned to meet the convertible.

Staring past him, through him, a black Sebring sedan slowly removed his tire aligned at the pickup's side. His eyes were unmoving as he assessed the tyranny inside the room. Eight other cars had arrived in the commotion, one, a stunned forklift Tony could only recall worked at a kiosk in the nearby shops.

The Silverado began to zone out. Hearing Kessler's growing pleas in the background was no help. The panic was setting in, and Tony sensed his grille was broken, as the bitter taste of iron grease was pooling in his mouth.

Tony turned to drive away, to get away one last time. He deserved that much dignity.

A tyke-sized caravan peeked from the safety of his parents suite, watching the truck pass with teary eyes. He began cowering inside as the brute Silverado passed. Tony stared ahead, numb and sick.

Sirens filled the buildings halls, or perhaps it was all in his mind. The faster he could get away, the better he could feel.

Tony swung around the descending ramp. This wasn't his fault— they caused this. Yarvis, Preston, Kessler, even Grid and their supervisor. They pushed Tony over the edge, practically enslaved him. A victim always feels guilty, and Tony was a victim. Always the target.

He speed faster when the world outside appeared. A sharp ache in his grille confirmed his earlier assumption, definitely broken— the only damage he sustained.

Breeze filtered through the leaks in his air intake, and the Silverado choked a cry, finding small traces of blood dangling to his throat. He spat up, trying to relieve himself of the awful taste.

Tony couldn't go to a hospital, no, he'd find some abandoned parking garage, an underground lot, maybe even the sewers. He deserved that much.

Police cruisers' sirens echoed through the city night, and Tony felt himself tense. He didn't want to see a thing related to oil running now. Tomorrow was going to be the worst day of his life, and Melise would hate him the moment she found out.

Yarvis was probably messaging everyone, the police would be looking for him soon. He committed a hit and run, one of the most unforgiving things a vehicle could do, and to the last friend he had.

The Silverado slowed down his very loose axles in a dark side street. Heaving for a minute, Tony puked violently, reducing himself down to his chassis flat on the asphalt, treads covering the slobbery mess of organic grease, tears and drool.

Tony was always a victim.


	44. Lone Wolves

At noon, the humidity from dawn dried the air. The Floridian tropical breeze returned with messy clouds keeping a wandering Silverado from overheating. He was visibly anxious as he made his way to the luxury Inn. He was several blocks away from his soon to be vacant motel, and the journey gave way to aggressive frustration.

He had passed six four-way stop signs, unstirred by any onlookers. In the midst of it all, the Silverado actually wished someone would push his buttons. Tony only needed a reason to hit someone. Until then, the pick-up remained stoic on his shocks, feeling stiffer than normal. Stress brought about discomfort, yet the Silverado actually sensed he was aging. His engine ran rough the past month; a low grumbling when he idled, and a mild chittering as he cruised. There was no pain, only concern that kept him heightened, then worried. He was too young for this.

Tony came to a halt as the traffic light turned red, nearly missing the point of no return on purpose. His escape was foiled by vehicles approaching in the lane beside. It would be another minute before the light turned green. Despite the short wait, frustration etched his bolts, confusion of his recent turn of events, has been pissing him off for days. But losing Grid's friendship— it wouldn't stop scratching at his paint. Quick to acknowledge the environment, Tony ignored a pair of chatting campervans in the lane beside him. Their off-road tires suggested Daytona beach was their destination.

Tony felt condensation from his recent ignition dripping off his exhaust. The dawn humidity mixed with a hot engine made him shudder in discomfort. Florida was hell, too hot and full of prissy cars, unlike his home state of Minnesota.

The pickup shoved the revolving hotel doors around with his weight, revving up his RPM's. Inside, Tony just managed to catch a disgruntled glare from the sedan receptionist. She was a witness to his rough welcoming. Fortunately, her elderly Plymouth roots kept her from confronting him directly. Instead, her stern eyes focussed tediously to the triangle sign planted beside her desk.

" _Idling Indoors Prohibited At All Times_ "

It wasn't a big deal, nor was the mud he tracked inside. He'd be out of her lane in a second, then they could call a forklift or some other car to mop it up. That's what they paid them for, to clean up after other vehicles.

Tony's nerves kicked in as the building chimed, welcoming another guest into the lobby. He didn't have time to run, and an adjustment of his mirrors revealed an overdone Jaguar coupe. She shot him a reproachful crinkle of her grille once she had seen his mirrors focus on her, and quickly labelled Tony a creep. Swiftly, she found her destination, and headed east down a nearby hallway. Her engine idled low, but the receptionist paid the Jaguar no mind, unlike a plain Silverado. He could smell the hypocrisy all over this place, and with that, disapproval of his existence.

Tony wasn't keen of it, his temper typically kept him blank, but that was the same coupe who was with the old Bentley from the other day. She was probably younger than him, every next-gen, and Rūūnes altogether, yet the makeup on her hood, and mods on her cab made her appear fully fledged, and nubile. Coupes like her had been to every parking lot and garage on the street. No doubt, that puny Bentley was her personal ATM.

Her engine's hums faded upon her exit, and Tony's once high hopes of running into that Bentley again for a second showdown, didn't so much as linger for seconds before he felt unwell. The Silverado found his axles weak, threatening to give away under him as he recalled where his anger had gotten him. It was afternoon, ugly like the tingling nausea in his tank. In the current moment, Tony's tires turned, and he glanced about the room, eyes lingering on meaningless paintings around the hotel.

Angrily, he tapped his tire, impatient only with himself. The receptionist observed his cab perk up in plan, recalling his task. Tony just needed to find Rūūnes— if he could remember her room number. She had given it to him some days ago.

Rolling along the elegant hallway, Tony's thoughts crossed over to Grid.- He hadn't seen the guys since he was terminated. Similarly, he hadn't conversed with them since he wrecked Yarvis. Even if he gave Melise his place at the 500, what would he get from all of it? Praise for listening and leaving? A figurative slap across the hood when she was outnumbered, whilst making job look easy?

Chevy, karma was hell of a pill to swallow.

All doors were locked this time around, and Tony glanced about, once again, precisely lost. He read the fancy, cursive print on each door, unsure, and growing numb. For a moment, the pickup lifted his tire, stepping it back to the ground with a loud thud. His shocks creaked, and his premium hubcap— the same prizes he purchased at the expense of Melise— fell to the floor again. Tony tried to loosen his joints, aggressively shoving the useless cap into a potted rose bush, it was garbage if it didn't do it's job. He cruised the halls, breathing heavily through his grille. Tony's thoughts were a direct explosion of a mess, lost in a sea of precariosity.

When two electric blue plumes tumbled from underneath room 206, the pickup inched his suspension down, curious. It was definitely a feather, it stood out in a deep blue, contrasting in the fancy hotel's off-white aesthetic. It was random at best, and odd. A stray plume caught the change in air, and spun softly into a nearby potted rose bush. Tony stared for seconds, soon snapping out, and glancing to the door. The cool breeze travelling through grooves in his undercarriage didn't faze him, his engine was boiling for the many days, today was no different.

Tony hadn't much less to lose, and knocked the door, the motion rough, skidding tire marks on the cream paint. He stiffened, composing himself with a stable rap of the door a second time, "It's uh, me… you know? Tony?"

It opened with a slow grace, and sweet aromas danced through his grille. The scent was too sugary and the essence was too girly. Her long lashes trailed up till her timid eyes met his. His size always intimidated cars, keeping him at the top of the food chain, and she was no exception. Firmly still on the other side, Melise gave him a half smile, "Good to see you."

There was another familiar blue feather on her hood, and the Honda closed her eyes shaking her hood lightly, letting it tumble off. She reversed in, Tony followed, noting more feathers strewn about. Her suite was messy, white gems and booklet swatches to compare shades of paint. Last time was a similar appearance, but Tony hadn't a clue why. She was probably buying expensive jewels or something with her scammed winnings.

She left the door cracked open, "I'm a little busy, so please don't mind the mess— WATCH OUT!"

Tony slammed on his brakes, lifting a tire to see an enamoured, perfectly glued together set of gems and feathers. It made a piece that reminded him of the tropics. He almost destroyed it. She sighed, relieved.

The pickup parked around the tools. He released his rear hatch, letting the wax wrapping decal fall out onto the tiled floor. The two cars studied the badge for a moment before Tony looked to Melise. The convertible's brown eyes were excited as she focussed on her memories. She really missed this, and Tony could feel the guilt pinging through his circuits again.

"You know, I never thought a job like this would be fulfilling, it's almost stupid how boring I've let my life be," Melise rested her weight on a tire, observing the detailed Piston Cup logo with digital ribbons adorning its sides. The bold print 'STAFF' plastered below the image, some minor wear and tear from previous use.

"Yeah… " the pickup replied, absent voiced. He stared off into space, dreaming about something else. Assessing the badge's size, Melise found that it's dimensions were larger than assumed. It would cover most of her side, including her rear wheel well. She could cut it just at the corner, but was that regulation permitted…

Her train of thought turned to her guest, whom she left in awkward silence. Melise gave him a glance, opening her mouth to speak, only to catch a glimpse of Tony's senile reflection in the suite terrace. She had opened it to help her crafts dry faster, despite the cloudy weather. The stratus clouds were hardly interesting, yet Tony stared right through them.

Melise pondered, inquisitive of him, and concerned, "Are you okay?"

Just then, his eyes widened as tires creaked past the room outside. Shadows only a meter apart told him was just a passing car, their tires. It wasn't an officer, but the possibility of hotel maintenance. The disturbance was nonchalant to anyone, yet Tony nearly lost his traction. Had Melise not been looking him over, he could've played it off, perhaps acted as if he had an insect on his windshield. She saw everything, and the pickup's face became grim as he continued trying to pretend he didn't nearly jump through the ceiling.

"I'm doin' fine," Tony stammered, "Just, get— uh, what am I supposed to do?"

Pausing for a moment, the convertible repeated his choppy sentence in her mind, trying to make sense of the confusion on her own.

"You gave me your badge," Melise replied gently, her eyes sympathetic as she observed him fumbling on his treads to find the same badge in his trunk. She smiled, nibbling her bottom lip, "Which you already gave to me." Her tire thumped the ground in front as the badge lay where he placed it only moments before. Tony's grille crinkled in stupor, he was a mess.

"Tony," Melise called concerned, "Are you alright?"

The Silverado shook his hood, looking about the room, "I dunno…"

Melise bit her bottom lip, observing the pickup's mood. He reversed away from the door, and soon found himself against the far wall with a thud. His brake lights shined on the cream colored paint behind, and he asserted himself, standing tall. Some blue plumes fell from the table beside, and Tony peered at the work she had be up to, a fleeting attempt to change the subject.

"What are these?"

She looked over the mess before answering, "Feathers". Melise headed towards her workstation, her tires crunched over stray plumes, and she made a uncomfortable face at the feeling, "They're for the next show I have to attend."

Tony watched her ruffle the mess, indifferent to see her reveal an adorned crown buried underneath. A repeating sequence of the ornament he nearly crushed earlier. The Honda glimpsed it over, her eyes showed pride and excitement as she admired her work. The Silverado found himself in minimal interest as he glimpsed the object over. Not entirely sure what it meant, but its imagery was still something useless to him. Opal stones fused the tiara to an arched perimeter, allowing each fragile, blue feather to float freely in a peacock formation ascending much like palm leaves. Under sunlight the crown twinkled like fresh royal blue polish.

Sheepishly, Melise placed the crown on her roof. It fitted impeccably. She blinked, looking to Tony for critique, "Ta-da," she said sweetly, exchanging a glance with the indifferent pickup, "What do you think?" She smiled shyly, her confidence bloomed slowly from headlight to headlight.

"Uh… coo— I mean, cool."

Melise had sensed it the entire time, Tony's oil pressure was sky high— in fact, the truck's entire mood was so off, she was almost unsure to make small talk. Nonetheless, the two had a plan, and objective to complete. She shook her cab slightly, letting the tiara slide off her roof, down her rear and to the floor. Tony glimpsed over as she placed it right side up, using her tire to push it out of the way with the other craft equipment.

He trembled as a thunderous breeze blew in and his suspension creaked. Tony kept a keen eye on the exit to the hallway, expecting the door to be teared down by an arch-enemy. He drove towards the terrace, looking over the banister for something, or someone. Inside, her expression held suspicion at bay, and she was eager to begin planning.

Melise had hoped small talk would allow him to admit what the problem was, but she knew Tony was a stubborn one. He kept his eyes peeled on the space below the exit door, keen on someone invading the two. The guys were probably still bullying him, and she was about to drive right into that fight again if sneaking into the 500 worked out. Melise glanced at Tony again, looking his expression over as he returned, reversing into the room. A firm frown, settled on his grille, uncertainty brimmed at its corners.

Melise drove in front of him, firmly concerned, voice almost a whisper, "Is everything okay?" He shrugged away, ignoring her.

"Tony, what is wrong?" Melise emphasized, clearly looking for a telling response this time. If there was one thing she knew about Tony, it was his ego, and it was missing this time.

The Silverado shifted uncomfortably as she invaded his personal space, silently beckoning him to explain himself. Without his space, the navy Silverado grew agitated finding some sort of explanation, "I got kicked out of my goddamn room— that's what happened."

Tony glimpsed at her, anger fuming. He was a big red target, a scapegoat for everyone's shortcomings. If it wasn't Grid's hunger for modern material aesthetics, or Preston's cowardice to follow, it was Yarvis' role to play the victim. The pickup's contempt didn't stop there, he knew Melise got off the hook from being punished— she was a girl after all, they were always innocent no matter how many scams they pulled.

Speaking of which, Tony found his eyes roaming the scene as Melise let the silence stir. She scammed money from the guys right? She was hush-hush about it, as if she needed to keep it on lockdown until she was away from cars that were unimportant, cars that weren't her. Tony gritted his teeth.

"I wanted you to know," Melise slowly spoke, "I'm glad we're able to work together."

He didn't reply, or acknowledge her voice, only watching some more stray feathers strewn about on the floor. Melise sighed quietly, unsure of his mood. She didn't like cruising over potholes.

"Just take the badge," he grumbled, turning tail to the exit.

Melise raised a lid, "You're not going? We're supposed to do this together."

His mirrors adjusted directly on her sight, and her eyes widened, surprised. Melise found her translucent, warped and fearful reflection in Tony's ocular. He was going to say something, perhaps antagonize her, again.

The convertible's deposition rapidly changed. She was fast on her tires when she needed to be.

Tony weary expression turned to anger as the Honda blocked his exit, forcing him to brake. Melise's eyes were sharp as she stood against his size.

"You begged for my help! Don't you remember?" Melise searched the pick-up's hood for reason. Tony's lower lid twitched at her jab. He didn't want to hear this.

She sighed, "Dammit Tony…" her usual, softened eyes returned, "I don't know what the hell happened— I never know what's happening— but you can't just give up."

The Silverado's lip curled incredulously and he inched forward, "You never know what's happening because you're anti-social!"

Melise shook her hood firmly, "Far from it," she looked up in reminisce of past events before meeting his glare again and widening her treads, "If I were anti-social, you would be alone right now, because it's clear the other oil runners don't care!"

Tony shifted, stomping his tire in frustration as he looked away from her. He grumbled through his grille, inhaling heavily. Melise watched the analog wall clock behind her swing slowly to a stop as the vibration ceased.

He looked at her once more, still fuming. His attitude had simmered some, but his frustration was undeterred. She was right…

"Tony," Melise watched his glare shift around the room, "You can try to fix this…"

An aggressive shake of his hood said otherwise, and Melise began to think harder, she always wanted to find other options, even when all were futile. She was the trying type.

"No, you don't even get it."

Melise exchanged a stare with the Silverado before he tried to push past her again, bumping her quarter panel. The convertible struggled, trying to reason with him.

"Just move," Tony protested, "The receptionist saw me in the lobby, she probably called them!"

Melise shoved her tires out in defense, hardly stopping him. The pick-up prepared to knock her out of the way. If she gave him a good enough reason, he wouldn't shy away from ramming her aside either.

"What does that have to DO with anything!?" Melise demanded, her tone raising in confusion.

Tony idled, looming in frustration. He exhaled through his grille once more, reversing and twiddling on his tires. His eyes shifted aimlessly, anywhere but on her. The actions alone were too obvious for Melise to ignore.

"You were fired…" he flinched at the mention of the word, despite her voice resuming it's ambience as she pieced things together, "Did… you… what was the reason?"

No response returned. Tony tapped his tire, likely thinking. A purpose was what he needed, and she wouldn't like the answers.

Melise let her weight fall to her left tire, stiffness followed, "If you don't tell me, I have no way of helping you."

Cracking metal echoed in the Silverado's memory. A mirror or two, then there had been dizziness. Truthfully, Tony took things too far, yet some ruthless part of his mind justified it. He'd lost his friendship with Grid already. His anger betrayed him again. This time, Tony would pay for it.

"The guys wouldn't leave me alone," Tony replied, eyes aimless, "I was just defending myself, Grid got hurt… a bit."

Melise's lips parted some, her face frowned and turned numb. She hardly understood the details, but she knew Tony was a violent truck with a bad temper.

"That's why you were fired?"

He nodded rapidly, still not meeting her eyes.

"What happened!? You're saying everything but telling me nothing—"

Tony looked directly at her, "They called the police! The other guys! Now they're looking for me— I didn't do anything! I got fired for no reason! Now I have to do this!?" He gestured the map in front.

Melise looked astonished and slightly aloof. Tony frowned, "You gotta trust me!"

Anxiety filled the room as Melise found herself worried. Tony looked elsewhere once more as she gathered her thoughts. Why hide if you were innocent?

"Can we just… I don't know, not do this Florida 500 thing anymore?"

Melise found herself feeling empathetic, yet she remained suspicious. More emotions crossed her circuits, including annoyance. Despite her nature to remain neutral, she couldn't let this all go.

She blinked, trying to meet Tony's wandering eyes, "This is a chance to redeem yourself, Tony. This, or turn yourself in."

He glared at her, forced and incredulous, "I'm not turning myself in for something I didn't do."

The fibreglass of Melise's frown softened despite his malace, "Then do this," she held his massive tread in two of her own. An attempt at reassuring him she wasn't an enemy, "Help me, help you."

Tony quickly shoved her away, receiving a very faint yelp from her end as she regained composure.

His shove yielded a common vehicular reflex— her cab shifted back, throwing her gear into reverse involuntarily. Melise was quick on her tires, and halted to a brake before she could crash into the wall. Her worried eyes focussed on the car she was trying to help, and he stared back eyes threatening, challenging her to surprise him again. There was little guilt in Tony's mind as he picked up a defensive role. He had to protect himself, even from her. Regardless, the Silverado had lost enough, and as much as he'd prefer conspiracy with Grid, Melise was all he had now.

Tony turned his wheel out, sitting weight on his shocks, trying to look less startled. His mind began to clear as he realised his recent actions, "J-just... keep back, no touching. So… What's the plan?"

Melise ignored her better judgement for now. A quick left and right test of her front tires didn't shoot any pain to her circuits, and for once she was thriving after a twist of events. She exhaled deeply, and forced her mood to radiate positivity despite her tank's instinct of warnings. The timing was a necessary match with the environment, as golden sunlight shined through parting clouds. The suite's big windows released a deep yellow hue, brightening the world. It definitely helped— her anyway.

The navy Silverado watched her left tire shake until a brochure was released from her wheel well. She pulled it in front of herself where she could unraveled it open. Her tires moved nervously, stiffer than she once was minutes ago. Tony's better judgement claimed he scared her with his behaviour, while his self-preservation painted the convertible as a likely informer— a snitch— if she were confronted by pursuing authorities.

Tony continued to loom over Melise's nervous form. Her eyes never met his, as she flattened the exteneded poster out. It was a map of the Florida International Super Speedway. Tony glimpsed at a legend spanning half the length of the paper, perfectly displaying how large the speedway truly was. He focussed his eyes nervously on the copper badge symbol, indicating Piston Cup security officials patrol areas of concentration. The odds aligned in his favour, as Melise had marked those areas with a bright gel pen as to avoid.

The convertible met Tony's dull eyes, "I have three different entrances marked to get inside," her tire scrolled over three unevenly sketched green boxes, "All of them will have a heavy flow of traffic," her brown eyes looked at Tony sternly, "Including security."

His tank seemed heavier as his eyes wandered blankly between her and the map, "OK… " Tony shrugged, anxiety quite clear.

Melise inhaled before continuing, "Initially, I was going to suggest you give me your badge, and I would do the rest," the Honda's eyes looked away, and she frowned some. Tony shifted his weight, focussing his glance on her. She blinked twice, eyes casted to the ground in and lips slightly parted. He wasn't sure, but she seemed to be thinking.

"If Grid is hurt," the Silverado flinched at the mention of the sedan, "That means the whole team is short two cars…"

Tony felt his tank turn, one bonehead move after another. He was wondering what she meant earlier with the strange and stupid, "Help me, help you" bit— he handed all the work to her after all. Yet he failed to remember one crucial piece of detail. Not only was he out of a job, but the oil runners were also out of two staff members. Not only was Grid suffering from a slow, hemoragging engine, but the oil runners were left without vital operation, and during the largest race of the season.

If the Silverado were alone, he would destroy this suite the very instant. No, he couldn't cause more trouble despite all the retribution aimed at him. He was a victim too, he had lost friends, money and security too. Minnesota was home, but his family was no home. He found a difference here, and screwed it up in under a year. But there was reason… maybe if he could convince his ex-supervisor… or the police… that it was self-defence...

Melise hid her inner turmoil, flattening out creases in the Piston Cup Staff decal, "I know it wasn't the original plan," she locked sight with pickup. Her glance remained neutral, "There's no one else whose as familiar with the Oil Lane as us both. So we're going in together."

He prayed the other guys didn't remember his license plate or his appearance at all. This wasn't going to be easy at all.


	45. Paying Off

The last place an antique Rolls Royce needed to be was cooped up inside the humidity of a banquet hall. Laverne Spark, the world-class owner of _Corinne_ , had made her return to the cattle call, typically uneager. Years of watching a pool of foolish girls try to become supermodels had washed the old woman bored. The mother agencies these girls came from were generic nonetheless, so the runway event was hardly going to be special.

It had only been fifteen or so minutes parked and waiting. The old fashionista looked like she was rapidly overheating. Hell, she didn't even like her inherited position in _AFTRA_ , but the red wine every other night wasn't a bad touch. Needless to say, Mrs. Spark was not impressed.

The posh old wagon frowned a set of wrinkles round her mouth, and sighed begrudgingly. The audience was loud, disruptive, and all over their smart phones. Spark specifically demanded to be placed where the air was cooled and dry. Her engine felt constricted, more than usual.

Her stale blue eyes scanned the scene again. Laverne prodded her handkerchief-holding antenna to the window of her assistant next to her. The vehicle gave Mrs. Spark full attention.

"It's muggy in here," the orange Rolls Royce fanned herself with the red cloth, "Why must they have me wait in a cloud of diesel?"

The blonde painted PT Cruiser agreed, shaking her hood indignantly, "Ma'am would you like a pint of iced Prestone?"

"No," the Royce didn't look at her assistant, "You can't afford it anyhow."

Blatant to say the least. Laverne had been cordially invited, and she would make her grand appearance, try to be impressed by amateur cars who thought their beauty shots and billing forms were enough for the big league. On occasion, a vehicle was lucky enough to be sponsored under her patent name brand, _Corimme_. From rims, to hubcaps, to windshield lenses and fibreglass spray, the company was reowned, known by cars worldwide. An opportunity young models dreamed of, and Spark loathed. Beauty was fleeting, fame was fleeting. Personality? No one cared even if you were as interpersonal as the Princess of Wales. It's all about the money.

The vents above the temple arena shuddered on, circulating cold streams that froze the old Rolls Royce in parts she didn't know she had. Synchronously, she would exaggerate her suffering, finding the five minutes of unfiltered warmth too much to bear. Then the PT Cruiser fed the straw to her wrinkled lips. Two sips later, she was complaining of the cold, wishing for a hot beverage. There was no in between, only treachery in separate waves.

Some said it matched her soul.

Presently, an Acura sports car made sure to keep himself parked a distance away from her. He always enjoyed Laverne Spark's reactions, the only thing truly palpable about the entrepreneur. She was a long time co-worker— sort of. The business required many networks, and Laverne Spark was a big one.

She fanned her grille, commanding her assistant to fetch coolant. The Cruiser was too giddy for her own good, and that would fade with a few more shifts.

His chrome taupe fibreglass glistened under strobe lights, revealing his rear license plate. Inscribed on it: "HUB," a nod of his last name.

Daniel Hub was no legend in the world of scouting, billing and booking. The job didn't always come with benefits either, namely the Queen of Potholes nearby. Her reputation was faltering in the last few years. After age rusted her belts, Laverne scorned all editorials aspiring under her. There wasn't plenty of room to bloom in the industry, but the old hag didn't need to burn bridges for young talent either way.

The Honda mix eased his shocks, watching the pools of freshly put together cars make their runs down the cruise way. This wasn't a cattle call, so Daniel could exercise his new outline for criteria. One, maybe two cars he could sign and market. These girls had portfolios with their respective agencies, so he could get more info about them if need be.

Hub had worked on Dinoco's Talent Team as a Booker for six years. The company did more than take care of him, they treated him like family, paying medical expenses when his axle snapped from overdriving state by state. This was one of his better gigs in the long list of past careers. Dinoco Talent was cleaner, carried less mileage.

Collective awes filled the room as the renowned Jaguar, Jin entered the runway. She had always done a number on her seductive appearance, and even now, the coupe sported a velvet paint finish. Nothing unusual of her, but she was established and controversial. He had enough of dealing with that kind of behaviour in the industry years ago. In fact, his own daughter was better behaved, and she was only a school-aged tyke. Jin was another inflated ego. She was a Jaguar, he was a Honda. Although luxury Acura lines were in his make, Daniel knew cars with that kind of privilege all too well in the entertainment business.

Daniel kept quiet. Indifferent eyes scanning what he could possibly see backstage. Hub had a job to do— scout. Find the next runner up for a serious offer.

The music changed with the lighting, dropping a heavier pop beat.

The Acura leaned back, eyes bored as they followed another car, a Camry cruising the runway to bubble-gum pop. The silver shine of her paint was striking, and her features were sharp, contouring a presentable done-up face. Yet again, it didn't do much for him. Dan needed something Dinoco Style could work with, not mould entirely from scratch. Something approachable.

Hub peered at the Royce through his mirrors, curious of her reaction. She looked half-impressed, which meant she was half-satisfied. Daniel would take it anyway. Maybe the Camry was lucky, Laverne was roused for once. Common cars hardly piqued her interest.

Daniel was seldom in checking the time. A lucky guess was that twenty minutes had passed. Twenty long minutes. The music switched constantly, as if advertising each car cruising. He never understood why the M.C did this, perhaps it was to spice things up, nonetheless it did wonders to his patience. The sports Acura yawned noisily, his mood unconsciously improved as royal blue strobe lights spun over and around the audience. A softer tune played melodic house hymns and Hub couldn't help but turn his interest back to the runway.

He could see feathers, which was eccentric. Cabs parked ahead raised on their suspension to get a glimpse of the rare beauty cruising the stage.

Dan's hard eyes followed the car, softening as he studied her magnetism. She was the first Honda he'd ever seen on a runway. Adorned in shades of Pacific blue, with an extravagant crown of royal plumes. The jewels, sparkled around its center, just above her windshield. She cruised at a reasonable pace, eyes fixed in a daydream and exploration ahead. On occasion, she checked her surrounding. A bashful smile grazed her lips just as a glimmer twinkled down her body. The Acura raised on his wheels, peering at her rear license plate to get a name. The distance was too much to get a clear reading.

Hub drove himself around parked patrons, some important, others just guests. His awe-filled smile returned as he got a better look at the glowing girl, just as she made her pivot back down the catwalk.

Dan had owned some Element Sleek Rims himself, and they lived up to the name— near perfect condition after a year and more of casual use. Her rims matched with a light halo of blue around the inner tread. The cursive ESL logo center cap rotated gracefully with her cruise. She must've had her paint professionally done, as finely carved hibiscuses danced around her back fenders. A pink ombré from distance, and creativity up close. She was as original as he had seen.

"Who is she?" Hub parked next to a silver Audi and the two watched the model graze by.

"I don't know," the car's sauvé voice came. He kept his eyes glued on her retreating rear, "but she's with ESL."

Dan took the time to analyze her. She was modern, and her not-so-obvious soft-top revealed her to be a convertible. The curves of her frame enunciated femininity, contrast to her youthful face. There must have been some Mitsubishi sprinkled in her lineage, as her rear was rounded, wheels dainty.

His engine purred low, she was one of a kind. He needed her name.

A unison of hushed chatter followed her departure. Dan adjusted his mirror, finding the old fashionista far away in the stands uninterested. She appeared to sigh, cooling herself down with a fan grasped in her antenna. Her eyes flowed aimlessly through the event. She had made up her mind already. No one impressed her.

Dan shook his hood rolling his eyes lightheartedly. He felt a rush of excitement despite her mood. Laverne was impossible, and wrong this time. This car— her, the Honda was something new. His eyes followed the convertible again, just missing her disappear behind the backstage curtains. The image of her beauty was branded in his mind with those soft piano hums. Hub had never seen anything like it.

Dan headed back to his entourage, disrupting the Royce's lack of participation. She paused fanning herself to glance his way curtly, stopping him in the isle, "Daniel, Daniel… " she shook her hood in disdain, "what's gotten you all perky like a Trans-Am in heat?"

Dan was accustomed to ignoring her snide remarks. The Royce was a bitter old car that needed a tune up ages ago, engine and personality. Let it be known, she was also a professional gossiper.

"I saw potential in the last model," the Acura's point glance met the old car's bored frown. Spark raised her lids, surprise crossed her wrinkles.

"Did you see her? The car in blue? She's a stunner."

The audience shared a collection of praise as a Benz cruised the stage. Her paint a consistent matte black, a long, glimmering gown trailed behind her. The new style matched the limited edition matte series rims she sported.

Mrs. Spark never took her bland stare off the handsome Acura in front, "Tell me," she sighed after a long moment, "What do you possibly find so attractive about a Honda?"

The comment was practically spat out, and the Royce's eyes searched his for a serious answer. Briefly, Dan glanced to the Chrysler Cruiser assisting the old bag, unable to shake the dumbfound from his hood. The Cruiser pretended to ignore their conversation, eyes firmly glued on the runway. Learned behaviour, perfected in dealing with a narcissist.

The Acura's eyes glared, the action very faint, "She may be an amateur, but she has the grace. Her face is soft, no heavy mods or angular features. She's youthful." Hub would be the first to admit he was jumping to decisions faster than his normal judgement, however, something clicked. Dan believed in destiny, and she was calling him.

The Royce remained undeterred, "Hondas don't excite me. Commoners with little fantasy in them. You never see them in places like this temple."

Dan rested his teeth on his lower lip, eyes squinting in stupor. The line was being crossed, and on his grounds for authorization, not hers.

"Now an antique Pregout," the old bag huffed a lustful sigh, watching the car in question cruise the runway ahead, "That's something to look at."

Daniel felt his engine twist. This wasn't a first time ocurrance. The miserable woman was keen on her respectability politics, categorizing cars based on make and model. From there she began her mental gymnastics of deciding if she considered them to be worth her while. Dan was a Honda at heart, his family was a mixture. Acura or not, he'd be damned if he had to listen to her nonsense any more. Tex Dinoco wouldn't have it either.

The Acura gave the idol a once over, "You're losing your sight too." Spark exchanged a skeptical glance with Daniel.

"Too?"

He raised a lid, nodding once, "You lost your looks years ago."

The blonde Cruiser returned. Balanced upon her hood was a pint of Prestone coolant. Hub paid her little attention on his departure, and she exchanged glances between the two, sensing the tension immediately. May the manufacturer bless her assistant's commission pay, Spark's breathy scoff was enough to spell anger. She had it coming.

Reversing into his parking spot, Dan did little in fighting an urge to ask those in the vicinity of ESL's recent face. Despite his poise professionalism, the Acura had the convertible's features burned into his mind. He rolled his tongue, pondering her age category. Her body had curves, subtle yet distinguished. She was of age, she couldn't be any less. Strict policies prevented minors, and Dan would inference the age to be in line with Jin, final teens.

The floodlights faded to amber, turning the environment to a dusk haze. House rhythm rolled in with the next car on the runway.

Dan's eyes loomed over his task book. The audience did their cinematic awes again. Whether or not they were truly impressed never phased him, but the noise was a distraction.

The Acura's stare was fixed on the curtains to backstage. The soft-top was hidden away, likely hopeless without direction, and hopefully eager. Hub needed contacts, a portfolio and her name. Once this catwalk event was said and done, he was going to brighten an aspiring model's day. One call at a time.

* * *

Many years ago, Reyna idled in this very spot as an junior agent. Backstage was crowd, mostly Mustangs, Audis and a Boxter here or there. Back then, spoilers were a statement, and the girls rocked them with pride. The categories were shallow, the media wasn't locked onto mass marketing.

The girls could enjoy themselves, and Reyna had seen a drabble of what they called 'Steam Punk' mixed in. The contestants spoke to each other, cheered for one another. She had seen six girls become a group of friends… it lasted for a while, until one wanted to be the top contender. Although there was still isolated vain, individuality was supreme, at least during amateur cattle calls back then.

Reyna blinked away inner thoughts, focussing on the lonesome dressing room around her. She was punctual, always arriving too early to see her clients. Eddie told her to make it a small vacation in the meanwhile, enjoy the local scene. Reyna wasn't having any of it, she hadn't seen her protégée in weeks.

"… When you were with that race car, and I was just tired and stressed out, so yeah, sorry."

Voices. The BMW peered from the inter-connecting powder room to see three cars. A Camry, modern and stylish red, white Le Mans stripes through her hood to rear. The Benz was a rare matte black, rims included. Blue lights on her undercarriage glowed, matching her sky blue eyes. The Honda was a lovely Bermuda blue, pink and red flowers on her back fenders. Her roof housed a crown, shimmery and daring, s contrast to her soft, brown eyes. The girls idled behind the ropes merging into the runway. Reyna almost didn't recognize Melise until she spoke. The convertible was different, striking. Together the trios elaborate outfits were spectacular, nonetheless distracting.

Reyna narrowed her lids, listening keenly as grains on the carpet crunched under new tires. Another car entered their spat.

"Ohmigosh, you actually said 'sorry'?" the Benz snorted, "When has that ever happened!"

The Camry hardly took the joke lightly. She rapped her tire aggressively to her friend's side, the sound of metal and a yelp echoed the hall.

Melise was not amused, "Stop hitting her. She was just joking around."

Reyna reversed from view, cringing. Even with her buttery tone, the criticism was blunt.

"I do apologize though?" the Camry shot the Benz a look of contempt, "I don't hear anyone laughing at your joke, so how is it funny?"

The Benz bit her lip, trying to ease the ache on her door. She glimpsed for any dents before eyeing her friend scornfully.

" 'Lisa, we just made up as friends and she's already mad again."

Silence. Reyna tried to peer, but her movement would be too obvious. She let her hearing tell her what she wished she could see.

"Lisa" her voice was almost a whisper, rising slightly in question, "Who is Lisa?"

The one with the black spray paint, the Benz, giggled rapidly, "Yoou! Duh, that's your name!"

"Melise," the convertible stated, expression wholesomely muddled, "Melise is my name. I told you that more than five times already."

The Camry smirked, turning the tables, " _Elise_?"

The black sports car shook her tires between the cars, grille twisted in confusion, "Wait, her name is actually Elise? You're confusing me!"

Melise sighed, a smile growing as her red sedan friend snickered. Talk about how to fix an argument 101.

"You confuse yourself, Merina," the Camry lectured, "That joke went right over your hood."

The trio began driving into the powder room. Reyna dipped her hood down, gritting when she found her chassis rubbing against carpet that was probably never vacuumed.

Melise's crown of feathers danced as she parked herself in front of a vanity. The two vehicles accompanying her parked to her left, liming beside her.

"I heard Laverne Spark was at this calling event," the Camry pursed her lips, after show anxiety growing, "I've dreamed of being sponsored by _Corrime_ since I was in middle school."

Laverne Spark was at this event huh? That would explain the Le Mans paintjob. Reyna was an agent herself, mostly doing paperwork and interviews, but she knew of Spark and her love of racing stripes in the right places on a car. Everyone knew the icon, or at least, her designer rims. _Corrime_ , the highest rim fashion brand.

"I had no idea she was here! I hope she liked my chrome and matte!" Merina puffed.

Melise blinked, " Who is Laverne Spark?"

The Camry went through three different expressions, one of stupor, confusion, then annoyance, "You don't know Laverne Spark? Seriously!?"

Merina shrugged, laughing nervously, "Well, basically no one knows her, but apparently she's a witch behind closed garages."

The Camry's expression fell, and she raised her tires in defeat, "That's the best answer you're gonna get Melise, because that lady is too legendary to talk about— we'll be here all night."

Melise smirked, "If she's so legendary, how come I haven't heard of her, Emla?"

Emla shrugged, "Well, that's because you're drinking buckets of IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline. Little Mrs. Storm."

The convertible's blue hood became rosy, and she pressed a tread against her mouth. Merina giggled in amusement.

"Please, change the subject," Melise murmured.

The Camry stretched, "I'm just glad we're all together and getting along," she peered intently at the Honda, "Melise, you look stunning, just like an original Dinoco Girl."

Melise smiled sheepishly, "Thank you," she smiled confidently at her reflection, "I figured—"

Her speech was cut short by a glimpse of the approaching BMW, free from her hiding spot. A gentle smile grazed her grille, and she looked between the girls.

"I don't mean to intrude… " the sports car breathed looking a reversing Melise up and down, "But I wasn't expecting you to be finished the runway this early."

Merina exchanged a look with the red sedan, obviously confused by the elegant woman's presence. Melise's mouth hung open, her eyes remembering the BMW.

"Reyna... it's been so long," Melise reached forward, embracing the coupe. When her mentor left her alone, Reyna was all she had out here.

"What are you doing here?" Melise reversed shyly, trying to ease the awkward meeting.

Reyna's eyes shifted between the two models at Melise's side, "Hello ladies, I'm her manager. I need to speak with her alone."

Emla's grille crinkled, and she widened her eyes. If Reyna knew her any better from earlier behaviour, she was a bit of a drama queen.

Melise chewed her lip nervously as the two cars left the vicinity. She watched Reyna as the door shut, ready for the consequences. She wasn't visiting for no reason.

Anxiety clouded the room. Reyna looked serious, "Did he hurt you?"

"Who?"

"Jonah. Where did he go?"

The Honda sighed, feeling the disgust creeping in. Truthfully, she had forgotten about him. All unpleasantry surrounding the ugly former mentor was soothingly replaced by priorities, goals and one night in a trailer.

"I don't know," Melise responded. She turned to face her vanity again, "and I don't need him either. Perfectly fine by myself, as you can see."

She toyed with a flattened blue feather that had found itself on her tread. Reyna observed Melise lifting her tire to examine the decoration, her dramatically esquisite downcast eyes suggesting she would rather discuss something else.

Melise reversed some inches, glancing at the BMW once more. Her voice came with exceptional mellow, "How is Mister Turo doing?"

"We're—" Reina cleared her throat, Melise gave her an odd once over, "He's doing better, busy, the usual."

Melise nodded, she thought some more, "What is the point of all this?"

Reyna appeared confused, "You mean the modelling? Well, ESL needed a face, and you already know IGNTR's CEO wanted to apologize to you in the most modern way he could."

The blue Honda turned abruptly, "I know, but, what I mean is, how can I go further than just rims? This can't be it?"

Reyna smiled, she could work her magic here. A knock on the dressing room door said otherwise.

"Excuse me? I'm looking for—" Reyna and Melise exchanged perplexed glances at the man's voice, "Miss… Melise? It's urgent."

Reyna's eyes became stern and she drove over, pushing the door open. Melise's soft eyes remained calculated. Outside idled a savvy taupe colored sports Acura.

He nodded once to Reyna, and looked at Melise slowly. His eyes were prominent and mature, "I hope I'm not intruding, I know most of the girls have left."

Reyna glanced between the two, Melise put herself in park, her own state assessing the unfamiliar car in front of her.

"I'm Daniel Hub, Senior Booker with Dinoco Talent," He nodded down to a badge on his quarter panel. Melise's eyes scanned over it. That was definitely the Dinoco logo.

"Nice to meet you, Daniel," Melise answered, she looked to Reyna briefly before turning back to Daniel, "How did you know my name?"

The Acura rolled into the room leaving the door open behind him, "You're on the rooster for the campaign. You're with IGNTR: Liquid Adrenaline right now, right? Right." He glanced to her side finding the familiar halo rings on her tires. They matched perfectly.

"Can we chat and cruise? I have something I'd like to discuss." Daniel reversed from the room, inviting Melise to follow. Reyna looked astonished, was Dinoco seriously this bold?

Melise looked at Reyna her eyes soft but tone curt, "I'll be right back." She followed him out.

Reyna idled in the silence, this Hub fellow made her feel incompetent, but she was smart enough not to show it.

Daniel checked on his prospective client through his mirrors. Her hood embezzled no ornaments, but he would recognise a Honda anywhere. She was simply impeccable, her natural beauty was hidden under those designs and spray paint. Even so, the Acura found himself candidly interested in her true appearance.

He reversed into the furthest parking spot against the Inn's side, offering Melise a spot beside him. She parked in the row proceeding, her tires straightening to line up with his. There was enough space between them, and she preferred it.

"Your run was great," Daniel began, "You've got a great smile too. It's serene, so to speak." A grin followed.

"Thank you, I just pretended I was driving down the street," Melise responded, she smiled nervously. Was this suddenly a job interview?

"So you're crafty too?" Daniel lightened the air, "Just what we're looking for. I have an opportunity for you… "

Melise ignored the urge to bite her lip, watching the Acura enunciate his tires, "How does it sound to become a real Dinoco Girl?"

She blinked rapidly, "A Dinoco Girl?... " was he joking? "But that's not possible unless I audition for that show they're on."

Daniel nodded, raising a lid with a smile, "That's very true my dear, Dinoco Girls compete in a beauty contest that's televised. However, with the Internet Era taking over, we're seeking more creative methods for recruiting."

He could see her chewing it over, genuinely caught by surprise. Daniel looked her form over again, he was truly impressed by Melise, he just needed her to confirm, "I mean think about it, you've already got the look down." She blushed, smiling that same youthful elegance, Daniel was a pro.

Hub watched her eyes meet his, shyness at its brink. He smiled warmly. She reminded him of his daughter.

"What is in it for me? What are the benefits, downsides?"

An expectant question eager models rarely asked, "Benefits include VIP access to Dinoco sponsored events including the annual Shamula Boat Party. You will receive regular vacation pay with health benefits after three months of full-time shoots, and a place in the Dinoco travelling vans. Among many other opportunities, you'll also be the first Honda on our stage," Hub smiled in admiration, "I know a good candidate when I see one."

Melise was still unconvinced, "What are the cons?"

"Constant travel," Hub stated squarely, he gestured with a tire, "The girls are as busy as racers, they just get to look pretty as well.

He looked sympathetic, "Your contract states you're not an American citizen. You'll have to reside here permanently if you want this opportunity, Melise."

She felt a ping of despair hit her, the chance was already fleeting.

Daniel came closer, she didn't shy away this time, "Consider this a formal offer," he summarised, "I know you've probably got a lot on your plate right now, however I'll need to hear back from you on this opportunity as soon as next weekend," Hub gently stamped his business credentials to her lower cheek with his tread. He seemed honoured to touch her, as if feeling a piece of timeless treasure.

"Thank you, Daniel," Melise replied sweetly "I'll have to get back to you, because there is a lot going on."

Daniel seemed in awe hearing her sentences, that was the most she ever said, "Good. I'll be looking forward to your response. Also we don't accept referrals."

Melise nodded, watching the sports car zest his engine. She blinked from the sudden sound, observing Daniel pull away, "Good meeting you, Melise. Stay safe, have a good night."

Despite his sporty nature, Melise was pleased to see Daniel driving the speed limit. He was in no rush to impress anyone upon his departure.

Internally, Melise screamed. She wanted to bounce on her shocks like a giddy kid, but that was otherwise immature. She had just been blessed with a great opportunity— a changing stance in life.

Melise rolled in neutral, the feeling of guilt pulling at her heart despite the excitement. She would have to leave IGNTR, leave Reyna, leave Edison…

Her family, the café… they would forever be a whole country away.

Melise's exhale was raspy; on top of her plan with an unruly Silverado tomorrow and a potential partnership with Dinoco, Melise needed a good night's rest. Based alone on her high idle, she wouldn't sleep so soundly tonight.

The Honda returned to the Inn's dressing room, finding Reyna ending a call abruptly. Despite Melise's better intuition, the BMW already seemed foreign. The Honda fought off the urge to frown, her joyful conscience was making decisions for her. Right now, more than anything, she wanted her friends.

"So," Reyna looked concerned, "What did Mister Dinoco Rep have to say?"


	46. New Avenues

Tim was a talker, rarely taking a risk even if he could spell victory with skid marks. His tank always advised him against it, a gut feeling if you will. His father called it "Stupid Risks Win Miserable Dents", and damn was that line true. He still wore his artificial win against the infamous Dickson when they were rookies pridefully, but something was wrong with the scene directly in front of him.

Situated outside a closed bar in the Floridian city night, Barry Depedal was beside him… doing a trick with an empty can. Tim had gotten the invite from him to chill. H.J Hollis was also here, currently taking his turn on the weeds. Treadless had eagerly inhaled the herb only moments ago and it's effects were infectious. His air filter was rejecting the heat in his system, expelling several coughs from the racer. Tim was loathing himself again, stupid risks got him stupid dents, all because of one thing... Jackass Storm. He was here too, parked opposite and socially secluded, the customary. Tim hadn't a clue how he managed to be civil the past twenty minutes in his vicinity. At some point, Treadless narrowed his illusioned vision, regarding the blue and black car as nothing more than a distorted blob with abnormal eye sizes. Cars don't have eight tires and two spoilers either… or do they?

Eight tires, four eyes, one bigger than the other… Tim had a toothy grin, he giggled. What an image…

"You've gotta take it easy," Barry kicked the aluminum can free from his space. He watched Tim slump forward, treads digging into the asphalt, his rear end up in the air. Tim looked like an idiot and it didn't stop the RPM-sponsored race car from cackling.

The Nitroade racer blinked his sticky eyes, the motion furious in his mind yet weak in reality. He knew Barry was laughing at him and if it were anywhere else, and he didn't feel like he was driving on fading sunshine, Tim would give him a piece of his mind. Parked adjacent, Hollis exhaled a puff of his drag. The intoxicated air filled the deck, engulfing the cars enjoying its odd sweetness.

Hollis closed his mouth, the remnant cloud escaped through his grille. He grinned then whistled a content tone, "I know its good 'ish, but only a girl should be in that kind of position."

"… It's my first time," Tim slurred, making eye contact. He couldn't even tell who said that. Barry was laughing about something else, or still at him. The sudden noise of his heavy chortles had startled Tim and he tried to shake the numbness off his axles. This green stuff made his parts feel like noodles. He also felt vulnerable, Storm better not try anything…

"I can tell," Jackson deadpanned, his eyes wandering off, finding scarce interest in nearby garden solar lights.

Storm was silent the whole time up until now. He was easing into the void at two miles an hour. Not a lightweight like Tim, but it had been a while since he took a social puff, perhaps a year.

Those days spelled pity washed away with the hit of a bong weekly. He'd made 'friends' there, at least in the conventional sense. Downtown L.A had a lot to do, but no substantial gain. The arcade was dumb, they never pulled decent money like the inner city clubs did. The environment itself was a mix of cringe 9-bit jingles from particular entertainment systems, uneven strobe lights that otherwise belonged in a strip joint. The arcade was empty on a daily basis regardless of the clement Californian weather, contrasting the noise of 7th Street just outside.

Jackson exhaled deeply, eyes wandering the edges of skyscrapers on the horizon. His mind begun exploring a past he nearly forgot about, intoxication was weird like that. As far as he was concerned, this ride was all his. He hadn't a clue why he even decided to accept the invite to pass a joint around and get baked, get to know cars he didn't give an ounce of care about. Those spot lights in the distance of Beach Shores reminded him of that shitty arcade all over again. He forgot about it only ten seconds ago.

Yeah, there were racing games, one mimicking his entire career with surprising accuracy. Super Corsa 1 was decommissioned, Super Corsa 2 was broken. Storm would opt to play in numerical order, but life said otherwise. The music on the system wasn't a loop of annoying jingles, instead, a genre between alternative rock and dubstep. The design of the machine didn't beg for attention, but it was different from the claw machines and mock poker tables.

An entire treadmill sat in front of the elevated flat screen menu. He could do more than park himself and dangle his treads over controllers like an imbecile. It was situated at the back of the arcade too, leaving him undisturbed from prying eyes.

Only a few days presented him as a certified game addict. Online multiplayer gave him individuality to create a car of his own, of course it looked like him, uglier and more stock-like though. It would take a while before he found it acceptable to use his real name on the system.

Storm kept the smoke in his lungs, letting as much of the dope enter his system as he could take. A slow blow out followed. He heard Barry mumbling lyrics from one of those new songs everyone was fawning over. His eyes were bloodshot at the corners, clearly content with his actual on-key rapping. It was short and he stopped after thirty seconds, thankfully.

Two cars; an Insight, blue fibreglass and wearing adult braces. The other was electric, red paint and obviously lost in the world. Storm knew that all too well, except he wasn't a loser.

These guys had seen him on the leaderboard start screen several times over, searching the empty arcade during evenings for the legend known in default as " _Player_1_ ".

When they met Storm, he was ignorant of their presence. He didn't have mirrors, but sensed eyes on him. The purple winner cup spun on screen, another day, another victory. At the same time, Storm exited the system, content, but growing bored. The Honda crashed into his electric companion as they were caught. Storm drove past their confusion, hiding his inner discouragement. He didn't like an audience, yet.

The hemp was really hitting him now, his wheels could grow wings. Storm blinked slow, why did he travel that far in downtown just to play a game? Well it was only getting better. Those guys spread word that he was dominating, online boards suggested he was the top player. Storm barely spoke to the cars, they weren't his friends no matter how hard they tried. They were fans, admiring his own ability. That ignited a spark, something like the short bliss he had with this hang out, meeting or whatever it was called when you smoked with cars you didn't know. Fans had a longer satisfaction meter, more forgiving too.

Ten, then twenty cars would crowd around, watching him make artificial bank. Each score rivaled the last, only Storm could beat his last record. He exited the machine later than usual one night to find awe in the eyes of several vehicles. They had to reverse out of the way to let the bored race car through, thumping him lovingly and dabbing tires in approval. He hardly gave them the time of day, but grew to appreciate the comments of praise he heard while racing. He was greater than he thought, these cars, nobodies they may be, made his image possible.

Eventually, the Insight convinced Storm to use a screen name, make an image for himself. He used his real name of course, no one else had one better.

Late nights with the fans from the arcade involved unnecessary boasting. The guys would start every pick-up line with, "Do you know who this guy is!? You gotta know!" Storm would experience insufferable bromance from the arcade dweebs, not that he hated it, simply put, it clouded him for a time, keeping him from reaching the real goal he hadn't yet conceptualised.

Greens were okay, when he wanted it. The stuff didn't help with racing performance and was associated with low-lives. Storm never had it in him to dip off the deep end in life— he wasn't a raging idiot.

Barry leaned into Treadless' side, his chuckle ongoing, "Don't ever say that again, man, you're makin' this weird as hell."

Barry blew another cloud, he was on a roll, "Tim's getting baked!" he turned his tires, rolling closer to Storm, "tell his crew chief, let's watch 'em get high together!"

Laughter ensured from the two men, Tim snorted a grumble.

Hollis sniffed, wiping his inner tread across his grille, the effects made him emotional and prone to overthinking, "That girl I met the other… uh…"

Storm frowned, watching him try to remember. He hadn't a care in the world for others' stories, nothing was as interesting as his breakthrough career. Today, right now, he was finding the typical ability to ignore fleeting.

Hollis was mumbling nonsense—was that his name? He didn't even know the guy or why he was here, probably invited by Depedal, or Barry. He wanted to do something, 'chill and stuff'. He invited Storm out, much to the racer's chargin. Jackson didn't do friendships with tailpipe kissers, and Barry Depedal was a professional annoyance, but the guy was also on good terms with him. Barry nagged him to attend insensitively, painting a picture that suggested Storm was weak if he opted otherwise. He must've forgotten Treadless was here.

"… she came back to the motel with me," Hollis begun giggling, he covered his mouth with a tread, "Yo, she's been a McQueen fan for years, I think I changed that… "

Barry raised a lid, chassis flat on the ground, "Ah… was she old?"

"Nah. A hot little Miata."

Tim's front wheel rolled forward slowly, he made a smiley face, trying to get his brakes to work, "Whoa, it's gonna fall."

"Put it in park," Storm stretched his axles, loosening any built up tension. Right now, he and Barry were holding up better than the other two and he wouldn't like it any other way. These guys were competitors and nothing more, yet Jackson found himself actually enjoying the chatter. Maybe it was the infused air helping him cope,** or Ray was right about friends and loyalty. His center shuddered, the very thought came with almost laughable patronization, who would befriend their own competitors?

Storm glanced, unimpressed by Treadless' attempt at reaching for a quart canister. The can begun rolling away on its side, "It's empty, who cares?"

"Where'd it go?"

"In front of you."

Tim loomed in search, turning on his high beams. He aimed for the ground squinting. Storm scoffed a low snicker, closing his eyes and shaking his hood. This was ridiculous.

"That's it right there? Watch me get it this time," Tim focussed his lights on the aluminum cylinder.

"Go for it," Jackson shrugged.

Barry was immersed in Hollis' story. The RPM racer's mouth hung open as the N20 race car dived into dirty details of his encounter.

"She said she did the same thing with her sister and McQueen. The guy had bare chicks on his wheels… but I don't even believe it."

Barry drooled, nearly jumping when Tim bumped into his quarter panel upon failing his reverse. He was searching for the canister again, losing it under his tires.

"Now they're all over Storm, lookin' for a good time," Hollis laughed a little too loud. Storm shared a smirk with him. Groupies were nothing new, nubile, confident and desperate, every guy's wet dream that took them straight down the drain.

"I'm falling… " Tim murmured again, eyes succumbing to sleep. He was in another universe.

Hollis exhaled through his grille, "I got her out of sight by morning. She was talking about him too much."

Barry zoned in on Tim, hearing his loud, buzzing snores, he grinned, "Tim's knocked out! Jackson owes me six cans of… hehe... Guava flavored Liquid Adrenaline."

"We made a bet? Since when? And does that flavor even exist?" Storm's hood was in the clouds.

"I dunno, but I want it," Barry tried to remember what he was talking about.

"What the hell is a guava?" Storm muttered. His grey eyes narrowed on Tim's sleeping cab, threatening to roll near him.

Hollis sniffled, tears suddenly falling down his windshield, "I'm such a dick, that was a dick move, man. She wanted my phone number and everything. She left one of her hubcaps in my room too."

"What'd it just fall off?" Barry snorted some giggles, "Ah… oh…kay she was a wild ride. Hmm?"

Storm was indifferent, mellow and crass, "It's called dip and skip, pump and dump. She wanted a hookup, you wanted a hookup, both of you got it. This guy's over here crying about it."

Barry looked for a creative sentence upon hearing Jackson's comment, "And Storm would know. Convertibles are sweet, they have that legal loli thing goin' on." He snickered, looking for Storm's affirming smirk. The IGNTR-sponsored race car was hardly interested in lame attempts of humor. If he even heard the joke, he didn't care to entertain it. This was down time, and he'd use his wisely for himself.

Hollis buried his sorrowful hood in his tires, "I'm done with her anyway, too much baggage. I gotta focus on the race coming up, and I'm gonna have to see McQueen knowing I got his sloppy seconds."

Jackson shrugged, "Trash values attract trash cars."

"Oh so you're saying she's trash, huh?" Barry pryed, he snorted a laugh.

"What?" Hollis sniffled confused.

Barry grinned, gesturing to Jackson,* "Not you, the convertible he knows."

"When you decide to place higher than fifth in every race, hit me up," Storm made steady eye contact with Depedal, "At least you'll know what it's like to be out of that last place cesspool you're in."

Hollis snorted, cackles erupted. Cesspool? This guy said cesspool…

If the moment spared Barry a chance, he would've found a good comeback. It was a joke, and whether or not Storm was serious became too important. Depedal was consistently ending each race in the middle of the top ten. He'd never seen a glimpse of the three major poles: Swervez, Racelott, Storm. Barry just couldn't catch up. With an engine built for high pressure and heavy G's, it was irksome to say the least. Even Tim was doing better, and Nitroade would keep him around, he had personality— the nice guy, so to speak. RPM hadn't announced the inevitable, they left the speaking to the crew chief. He was a rough as nails Chevrolet truck with no chance of outpacing a Next-Gen. That didn't take away his tough love training techniques and belittling critique. The guy drove Depedal nuts. Who was he to say Barry's stats weren't up to average when he was placing fifth and forth ever other race? Barry could fire him… or perhaps ice cold coaching had in fact paid off.

Barry settled down, he thumped his tire to the pavement twice, it seemed far away from him. His mind was muddled and satisfied, a mix otherwise unsavoury for the sober folk or bustle of the racetrack. Confusion usually lead to frustration, not bliss. His crew chief would bust his rear anyday for getting high. Tonight, Barry ought to be training, but he wanted to see Storm, maybe learn a trick or two. Save his career before RPM decided to drop him.

He shook his hood, "We're the closest thing on the track since you lost your friend McQueen, 'member that?"

Storm shifted his weight on his left tire, his eyes lowered placidly, "The guy that's old and retired, but still places higher than you? Yeah, I 'member him."

Hollis raised his lids in surprise, glancing silently amused between the two vehicles, listening to the duo bicker. He'd defeated his earlier emotional breakdown, quickly finding himself in the midst of a showdown. H.J never missed a knock-down drag out fight, never.

"Aw, it's deeper than racing, it's gettin' personal!"

"We aren't just chilling here?" Storm confirmed his mutual banter, "McQueen and I are on good terms, you know? I'm set to bargain a case of Rust-Eze Mud flaps before they're sold out."

The guys laughed, Tim stirred, leveling his chassis groggily. Barry caught sight of the subtle eye movement.

"Good morning, dumpling," Barry's tone swooned, checking out Tim overtly, the latter stared, blinking in blissful wonder, "Would you like your eggs done over easy?"

Tim bent over his treads, resting his front bumper on them. He looked right at Barry, eyes bloodshot and hardly open, he was in another world, "Yeah mum… Can you brew some Mobil too?"

Hollis and Barry laughed harder.

Tim was drifting off again, contently unaware of the world around him.

"Tim, you've lost it! He baked too good! He's overdone!" Hollis doubled over and began coughing. Storm's mouth lay slightly parted in the most minimal expression of incredulous disdain for the drooling race car.

Barry looked thoughtful, "How deep is your mom's voice, though?"

"He's in the void," Storm observed Treadless nodding off again, "just let him sleep."

Minutes of peace and quiet accompanied by an occasional snore from Treadless passed the night. Still stoned, Hollis had quieted down, matching Jackson's tranquility. Barry was telling them a story, only realising after five minutes that it was all in his head.

"I saw those Rust-Eze, McQueen brand mud flaps on Instagram. Are those real?"

Storm looked at Barry with half-closed eyes, shrugging his axles some, "I don't know."

Hollis studied Tim's sleeping form, finding the image of bright red splash guards heinous, "Who even uses rubber mud flaps anymore? The last time I saw those was when I went to Portugal. Old Alters were still using 'em."

Barry looked interested, "That's your background?"

Hollis nodded, exchanging a glance, "Yeah, grew up in Seattle though."

Eyes looking between the two, Barry grinned, "My Pop's from there. I'm from Jersey. Lived there my whole life till I was too fast for the roads. What about you, Storm?"

Jackson opened a lid, his disposition clearly impassive, "Grew up in Calabasas, nothing special."

Barry nodded slow, "Alright… alright…" he felt a dizzy sensation lift him. Storm was closing his eyes again. He said that like it meant nothing. Calabasas? There are some nice houses in that part of Cali…

The conversations were flat, a good medium while intoxicated. Barry had the moment all to himself.

"YO! TIM!"

"Uhu... "

"You barely took a hit and you're still in the clouds, man," Depedal creeped forward, thumping the deep brown race car on his hood.

"Knock-knock," Barry teased, "I'm looking for a guy named Timmy Training-wheels."

Hollis begun snickering once more as Tim cringed, puking on the asphalt. The monolith of Treadless' social reputation was becoming a running gag. Still, he had to admit 'Training Wheels' was funnier than it should be, the ring was perfect.

Storm flexed his jaw, vision fixed absently on those same search lights in the distance. He could hear the noise, the cackling cars beside him. He endured this materialistic friendship for far too long. IGNTR wasn't paying him to listen in on the conversations of guys that were professionally below his skill level. The life of a well-known race car meant praise, and Jackson loved his when it was due, specifically trackside with an excellent camera view of his decals.

Fans also tried too hard to impress him. Tailpipe tattoos were the worst, rivalling beside them had to be comparisons to Lightning McQueen, and creating awfully inaccurate, cheap replicas of IGNTR's distinctly sharp logo. What was that dressing up thing called? Cosplay?

Those cars were the rain on his parade. The trailer kept him away from answering racy questions self-proclaimed number one fans had. Scractch that— ridiculous questions and 'cool things' they wanted to show him. Surely, the paintjobs to mimic him showed dedication, but only one car truly looked supreme in sleek black with electric blue patterning.

Gale caught on quickly to Storm's otherwise unfriendly approach to invasive admiration. She was the only one prepared to talk about it. Storm had exited the trailer that evening, bee-lining his way through RSN journalists and track crew at Virginia Speedway. Undisrupted most of the way, Storm was obviously ambushed by a hatchback with salvaged parts. The vehicle in question was eager to show the already ire race car his tongue tattoo. How he managed to make it past security was a question on its own. Answered swiftly, dust was all Storm left behind in a wake of repulsion. His fan was bothered, confused of the twist in events. Storm was confronted shortly there after by racing journalists ready to catch an interview in his spare time. Surprisingly calm, he addressed the audience at home about his thoughts with resilience. They'd never guess he was out of mood before, a lifestyle she could never imagine maintaining herself.

Storm could feel sleep tugging at his eyelids. The effects were wearing off.

Gale called those kinds of fans who had a story to tell him 'The Child Who Survived Adulthood.' Storm rebuffed her positivity, faithfully labelling them as 'The Children Who Couldn't Survive Adulthood' respectively. Who gets their tongue tattooed?

Right now the unrelated blasé was reaching its peak, with Barry. Storm was getting tired of his half-assed attempts to overawe him.

"You're trying too hard."

Barry's grin fell slow, he exchanged an awkward glance with Hollis, the latter curled his lips, dipping his hood low. H.J kept his amusement to himself.

"What?"

Storm loomed, his decals ominous and luminous with a growing glower. He didn't like repeating what was obviously heard, "He's a first timer," His glance grazing over Tim's pathetic inability to control his bowls, "It's disgusting, but none of it's on you, relax."

Barry's lower lids arched under his eyes, he looked like he had been caught with his tires in slick oil. His cheeks got hot, whether it was anger or embarrassment was anyone's guess.

"I'm not tryin' anything," Barry gestured to Treadless twitching in his sleep, "he's effed up and its funny."

He'd heard Storm could be jerk. The change of the livery racer's tone was now a fresh wound. Barry had not planned for that reaction, even how solemnly given it was. Storm had limited words, but when he spoke it typically stung. Depedal wanted to be different, he wanted to be accepted, Jackson Storm was rapidly becoming a world-class name so why did he care about the light hearted jabs anyway?

To actually be sticky about Tim's chunks and roof'ied at the club demeanour spelled out a buzz kill for Depedal, Storm was so serious all the time. Tim was drooling a bead now, dosing off again. Barry thought they could draw stuff on his hood come later on, perhaps steal his tires and set him afloat on Daytona beach. There would be nothing more than a mattress for his chassis to lay on.

Barry's grin didn't want to return despite the image, Storm's placid remarks with a cooled edge of justified means had too much of an impact. Barry searched his unbothered, tired grey eyes from the circle, Storm's 'diss and drop it' mentality spelled 'I'm a raging dick' clearly. It did not help that Jackson kept composure, unthreatened by rival opinions. Chilled down, he looked more reasonable, making the other party crazy for retaliating.

"How am I getting hate?" Barry appeared stupefied, ignoring the burning rage brimming his psyche. Somewhere in his mind he knew exactly why this argument was starting. He couldn't keep his mouth shut.

Storm turned his tires to face Barry, annoyance brewing, "You got a problem with the truth?"

"What!? My jokes are funny as hell!" Barry retorted, his eyes shifted between the cars, he had only invited Treadless to be the third-wheel. If Storm was difficult to impress, Tim was easy to shoot down for the gratification. Depedal wasn't whipped, but he would use the resources available to complete a goal.

Silence ensured, club music reverbed, echoing in the night's distance. Barry swallowed hard, Jackson was really ripping on him over that? A slobbery mess of a grown vehicle that couldn't handle a small dose of herbs.

Barry shook his hood aggressively, snapping out of thoughts that would become regrets later, "Hollis! What did I do!?" his eyes shifted quickly to Storm's tires rolling halfway forward before halting, eyes transfixed in pale annoyance. H.J's amusement never missed a beat, he was trying to wake Tim before they missed the match.

"This is pathetic," Storm stated, he looked Depedal down like he was roadkill, "If you want to settle this, race me to that dirty beach outside the stadium."

Barry opened his mouth to sputter some excuses, genuine reasons. He was quickly disrupted by Storm's sudden relaxed sly tone, "Yeah, let's do this."

Hollis raised a lid, finding the creativity in Storm's offer a treat and a curse for Barry at the same time. Race cars loved to push the limits, but how did they go from chilling to literally two-hundred miles an hour in argument?

"ALRIGHT, FUCK IT, LETS DO THIS SHIT!" Barry caved in gritting his teeth and revving twice, his insecurity taunting him as he sped down the road in a squeal of smoke and swerving tires. Tim awoke in a frenzy, burying his drooling grille in his inner treads. He groaned noisily, the intoxication still felt like crap.

Hollis blinked through the searing nylon cloud, hearing Barry's decreasingly sonorous engine traversing the distance. It took Hollis a few seconds to realize Storm was still next to him, his grey eyes focussed nonchalantly on a red light down the street. He tapped a tire repeatedly to the asphalt below, listlessness was his speciality, even without ample racing slicks.

"Uh, was that to get him to go away or something?" H.J knew this wouldn't end well if Storm was back here in park while Depedal was cruising at light speed through downtown Daytona.

"Nah," Jackson blinked, watching the light become green, "He wants a head start it, so he got it, no big deal."

Tim peeked from his slobbery treads to the sound of a high performance, V8 engine increasing power after ignition. Storm dropped eye contact with Hollis apathetically. He pulled out in a left turn, straightening with equally supine precision. H.J didn't mention it, but what Jackson couldn't make up for in his otherwise perfunctory attitude was adept efficiency in his driving. He was too calm for the title 'World's Fastest Car'.

Storm's acceleration increased as he travelled down the road, disappearing being the structures. Eighty… one hundred twenty… one hundred ninety... performance akin to a bullet. Within seconds his engine, a distinctly different hum to its semi-electrical nature, thundered through the night.

Tim rubbed his fenders, attempts to ease a growing hood ache. His voice was gravelling and unwell, "What're they running after?"

The N20-sponsored racer didn't reply or turn to Treadless. His headlights flashed on, and he departed quick, following the racing duo. Tim frowned, burying his hood under his tires again. He felt repulsive symptoms pulling at his body, just a glimpse of the artificial street lights made Tim gag. His stomach twisted in knots his tank would expell painfully later. Dead-set on it, he would never try weed, or hang out with these cars again.

Barry honestly didn't know how street racers did it— navigating through the very real threat of an accident in road traffic. A grin of concentration on his front, the deep purple race car sped through a record of nine red lights, ignoring horns of stray vehicles passing horizontally through each intersection.

Without rear-view mirrors he couldn't tell where Storm was behind him, or how far Daytona beach was from his own location. Barry squinted through the tall apartments lining the avenues, catching an usually dark skyline on the horizon. Those city searchlights were rhythmically passing over the deep hue in three second phases. Each time, the horizon's ominous black hole like appearance didn't reflect light. Only one place induced an unconscious feeling of thalassophobia, the ocean.

Depedal decreased speed, still well above the posted limit of thirty-five miles per hour, cops couldn't stop him anyway. Streetlights danced glints of white light across the orange tint on the tip of his hood, Barry inhaled clean, cooled air through his grille, a contrast to the typical temperamental heat of closed quarters driving on a speedway. Besides the absence of more driving space and nearly tearing down stop signs on some turns, street racing was a breath of fresh air.

He also won the race, the shore was only getting closer. Storm should've kept his trap shut, all of this effort over a joke.

Barry took a right turn on Atlantic Avenue. He picked up speed along the long stretch of quiet road, frowning as the sound of an abled racing engine closed the space between them in short time. Depedal's eyes widened as the sleek green N20 Cola Next-Gen arrived at his side, they matched each others speed, palpable competition.

"Bro can't believe I caught up to you!" Hollis laughed, watching Barry's mouth curl into a devious grin, "You guys are actually racing, it's cracking me up!"

Barry's grin couldn't get any sharper, "Where is he?"

Hollis' glance shifted to the street behind him before looking at Barry again, "Who? Tim? I left him behind at the parking lot—"

The deep purple racer shook his hood his smile wiped clear with annoyance, "No! Storm! Where is HE!?"

H.J watched where he was going for a second before shrugging his tires, "I dunno! I just came to see who wins."

Barry turned his attention back to the road, at one hundred ninty-five miles per hour, he was nearly there, the beach entrance was just two lights away.

Anxiety peaked with rumbling to the right lane of the avenue, currently unoccupied. Depedal looked up to see a passenger plane flying low, to be expected MIA was a few miles away, his relief gave in some.

"Uh oh," Hollis looked over Barry, fixed on the vehicle catching up quickly. Barry wore an incredulous expression as he noticed those ominous glowing blue decals across the street island.

He could make out Storm's easy half-smile as he watched the way ahead, "Hey," the IGNTR race car called once he was cruising with them, "You finished your warm up yet?"

Barry gritted his teeth, speeding past the two Next-Gens. Storm watched him silently, ignoring Hollis on the left side of the two opposite travelling lanes. He was as phlegmatic as possible when he switched to the oncoming lane in the break of the avenue island, Hollis sped up after them, finding it increasingly difficult to match Storm's speed. He was going too fast, eventually right beside Barry again. The RPM racer shot him a tangent of slurs, Barry's face suggesting he was at war. The two were nearing the tight squeeze of sand riddled road merging from the Daytona beach.

Depedal and Storm barrelled through the one-way curve at the same time, otherwise surprising Hollis who had slowed down considerably in the wake of danger. A dust storm formed as engines hissed to the change in surface. Hollis just reached the chevron-marked curve to be pelted with kicked up sand. Storm's engine roared under the grubby beach, his speed sending him in disorganized figure eights. Barry was stalled, his front tires caked in wet sand.

His back tires accelerated in hopes of freeing him, launching sludge on Storm's hood. The race car was immediately angered, "Watch where you're driving!"

Hollis was slow on the sand, the surface was foreign to many cars' footing. It was weird and uneven.

"I WON THIS!" Barry snarled, he teeter-tottered into the sand grille first. A muffled squeal followed.

"YOU CRASHED INTO ME! You drive like a tyke!" Storm bellowed, his own tires now stuck. He looked disgusted with his surrounding.

Hollis watched the two bicker, Barry made an ultimatum, and Storm rejected it. H.J began wiping a tear from his quarter panel as he laughed uncontrollably. He would never forget this night.

Storm was shaking mud off his freed treads, annoyance wild, "… FINE! YOU WANNA DO THIS VIRTUALLY BECAUSE YOU LOST!? THAT IT—"

Barry yelled louder, nearby houses turned on their lights, "I WON THIS SHIT! AND I'LL WIN THAT TOO!"

The sound of water swelled by the shore, the tide came crashing in and both cars quieted down. Barry hissed, jumping away on his springs as the water level reached half their rims height. Storm groaned, crawling.

Of course Hollis doubled over, a pain in his circuits— maybe a wire came loose. He hadn't laughed this hard in years. Jackson and Barry were still struggling as the current pulled back into the sea.

"Hey guys!" Hollis called, waving a tire to catch their attention. Barry frowned, looking away to try and free his tires with strength, Storm looked like an embarrassed little boy, his star struck look fading into annoyance quickly.

"Should I call a tow truck?"

"NO!" the two answered quickly.

Hollis snickered, "Hey guys!" Jackson fought the urge to shoot him a death glare. They didn't look or answer him this time.

"There's another wave comin' in! It's a big one!"


End file.
